Maimon, The Outcast

I'm continuing to learn as I make my way through books about Maimonides.  As I said, he can't win.  He was too smart, too unique, too out of step with the Jews, too definite and without compromise.  He threatened too many people; and the traditional Kabbalistic/Ashkenazic/Gaonic ways of life were against him.  He wanted for the Jews, what the Jews didn't want. His intentions were the best--for the glory of Hashem (God), and "all Israel."  However, "all Israel" wasn't on the bandwagon with him.

One of his fundamental goals was to organize and settle the totality of age-old Talmudic dissension, controversy, and dispute, henceforth and forever more; essentially, he wanted to separate the wheat from the chaff, deleting argument from Jewish law (halacha); he wanted the Jewish world to be able to cleanly and easily grasp the crux of the law without having to stumble and meander through all the arguments preceding it.  The Jews, however, problematic and divisive to the core, had to argue with someone, so they disputed Maimon instead of Talmud--exactly what he was trying to eradicate!!!

The Jews needed to stick with what they knew--Talmud the old-fashioned way; a "mishmash" of debate. Interestingly, the Jews accepted Judah ha Nasi and his Mishneh; they accepted Joseph Karo and the Shulchan Aruch (Set Table--rules of behavior).  But when Maimon came along in between the two, isolated there in the southern Sephardic/assimilated Graeco-Roman-Moslem world, it was a "Thanks but no thanks."  Maimon was perceived as being too radical.

I love Maimonides.  I understand why he wasn't accepted.  I respect that.  He wasn't wrong; he was different.  He was writing for "the Bunch," and at the same time, he wasn't one of them.  Remember about community--how one has to fall in line.  How community keeps one in line if one falls out, or ultimately rejects him, altogether.  Snius, snius--(Modesty, modesty: Humility). 

That's the answer.  Right there.  Maimon didn't fit the mold.  It wasn't that he was arrogant, or mean, or anything that was a negative.  He was just different, and too bright to know or reckon with how deeply his work and persona impacted others.  He was aware of others' disdain regarding him, and their arguments concerning his dedication to rational discourse. Yet, he hoped that in time--the future--Jewish perspective no longer would be personally directed at him, and objectively would swing toward his way of thinking, instead. It did not.

His was THE greatest mind during all of the Middle Ages (not just amidst the Jews, but everyone)--on a par with Einstein, easily; albeit much better rounded than an Einstein.  Maimonides was a freak, an outcast; too brilliant for the masses--even the educated masses--to grasp. Astounding man.

The truth is, the Jews didn't want him because his expediency, clarity, and organization of thought threatened their established, dithering ways. Maimon, in his zeal for codification and rationalism, was about more than just regimenting the Talmud and Jewish law.  Ironically, and Jewishly, he was about unraveling the "Jewish mind" without realizing it.  He wanted a kind of linear thinking, in a Jewish world that was ponderously circular in ideology and thought. Essentially, he wanted the Jews to think like the Greeks: they were not able, as they were Jews.  There is a fundamental difference between the two cultures in terms of mindset.  This is one element that Maimonides was unable to grasp, in my opinion; quite possibly because he was Jewish, himself.

Perhaps, one could say the Greek mind was about, "either this or that." The Jew is about, "Well, maybe a little this and maybe a little that; but then again, maybe not..."   For the Greek, everything has to add up mathematically; for the Jew, there are always two possibilities; unless there is need for one more.

Alas, Aristotle and Maimon, of the crisp and decisive Greek mentality, must have had fits regarding such willy nilly back and forth discussions and debates.

Thus, Maimon became read and studied as a Jewish philosopher, and a commentator on Jewish law.  His effort to re-write and define the Talmud, was acknowledged, but not rendered authoritative. A first-rate second-stringer at best, others were studied long before him--if he is studied at all. He ran rings around every single Jewish scholar who ever lived.  Even now. But it didn't matter.  He wasn't part of the Bunch.  And that, in Judaism as with all tribes, is the bottom line.

I read about him with tears in my eyes.  It is so hard to be different.  It really is very lonely at the top...

Maimonides by Moshe Halbertal

My review written for Amazon: Try it; you'll like it. 
I suppose it begins with the book jacket, which is elegant, no-nonsense, and straightforward. The content of the book only gets better from there. Mr. Maimon (as I refer to him), happens to be one of my heroes. This volume, which is thorough, laced with appositives and careful elucidating explanations, clearly defines why I feel the way I do.

The author is succinct, logical, exceedingly well organized--no doubt Maimonidean himself--and the book, in my opinion, is exquisitely sensitive to Maimon the man, as well as to the philosopher/logician/astronomer/physician. The book covers his entire life in the initial biographical chapter that is about one quarter of the book. The rest of the book is devoted to Maimonides' most significant works--his "Commentary on the Mishneh," "The Commandments," "The Mishneh Torah" and "The Guide for the Perplexed." Halbertal refers to additional compositions; however, the focus of the book is primarily reflective of these--the best, most influential, and most powerful of Maimonides' writings.

Maimonides, himself, in addition to his incredible mind, was funny, sarcastic, brash, impatient, rude; in short, he was straightforward to a fault, and had no positive sentiment for the "stupid" or the "foolish," as he referred to them. It is important to note that he was as caring and feeling about those whom he loved, as he was passionate about those whose ire he raised. The author covers all aspects of this extraordinarily gifted gentleman; not infrequently exasperating in his insistence that his way was the right and only way: At one moment, Halbertal actually refers to Maimon's behavior as that of a "harebrained amateur!" (This, to add depth of thought, and chuckles, too, regarding the most profound of all medieval thinkers).

I think one has to be a little bit peculiar to relish such a book as this--printed by Princeton, that seems to do a wonderful job of choosing its authors--because Maimonides in today's world, by many would be deemed as somewhat esoteric; even among Jews, themselves. Mr. Maimon took no prisoners when he wrote, slammed head-on into the established Jewish scholars of his day; and those with whom he took issue, all the way back to the time of the "other" Moses. Had he been burned at the stake or excommunicated, it would have been fitting, albeit so hideously wrong. However for me, being an eccentric, I fairly swoon over his principles: Provincially Jewish to the core; but grounded, developed, and enhanced by the classical thinkers of Greece, Rome, and the golden age of Islam.

I say this book "rocks."

It is at once an introduction to the magnificence of Maimonides, and it is a summation, too; depending upon the reader. For the novice such as myself, who craves information about Mr. Maimon, Halbertal's volume is superb. I would imagine that for the knowledgeable reader, "Maimonides: Life and Thought" would be a sublime refresher, synthesizer, and assistant with insightful information.

It's tough going on the one hand; I find myself wanting the primary sources. On the other, it's deliciously rich, beautifully written, not without witty similes and metaphors. It's terrific! What can I say? As for the translator (the book was originally published in 2009, in Hebrew), the 2014 (yes) English edition's eloquence is clean, fluid, and filled with fun vocabulary to delight: Three cheers for Joel Linsider!

So for me, I think "Maimonides: Life and Thought," by Moshe Halbertal, is a million times better than any Harry Potter tome; and between us, many times more spellbinding... Enjoy.

"Hypers, Nancy!" George ejaculated. Response: Political Incorrectness In Nancy Drew Books

[ The followimg post is a response to an article : Was Nancy Drew Politically Incorrect? ]

In every single thing I do, I am a detective.  Some people call that "doing one's homework."  From the moment I arise until I drop, I am a grade-A busybody; whether it is about medicine, law, education, business, or just trying to survive in today's world.

Nancy Drew's, some in first editions (yes, really), have a place of honor on my bookshelves.  I have them printed on cheaper paper for the sake of saving money to support the Second World War; I have them with R.H. Tandy's marvelous illustrations both in glossy black and whites printed from 1929 through the '30's, in pen and ink's from the late '30's and '40's, in their colored covers.  I also have the later illustrators who cheapened and simplified Nancy's style and persona.  It was R.H. Tandy who gave her her beauty.  Not to mention that of chums, Helen Corning, Bess Marvin, and George Fayne; with loyal housekeeper, Hannah Gruen, and Dad--Carson Drew. Remember???

The books, complete with running boards on automobiles that required blankets for "motoring" as there were yet to be car heaters; a whopping speed limit of 20 miles per hour; rumble seats in roadsters; or "electrical ice-boxes" as the term "refrigerator' was brand new; were also very real. That is to say, the books reflected the times in which they were written, as the author states.

There neither was nor is absolutely nothing wrong with them.  Nothing.

As several of the folks commented below, it wasn't about "racism" or "anti-Semitism'" in those days.  It was about reality: The way things were.  That's called "HISTORY."   The books, with the nom de plume of Carolyn Keene, were well written--for third and fourth graders--full of fun vocabulary, settings, adventures, and new things for young girls who wanted to be grown-up's.  In those days, when a girl like Nancy was 16, she was already running a household and solving mysteries.  As the books progressed, and our society was ever more protective of its children, Nancy's age upped to 18.  She had to be more mature to do all of those things; it wasn't so much about time passing, as it was about our society becoming less mature.

The bigotry and prejudice, if one wants to look for it, is there--"good and plenty."  But you know, it's how things were.  As the author writes, rather than hide reality from children, talk with them about it.  Learn from it.  Be glad that Nancy offers so much in so many dimensions--historically, politically, socially, culturally--in addition to the simple plots that were ever so adventuresome!  I still "blush to the fingertips" when something exciting is upon me. Don't you??

If one wants to address the 'Drew books, rather than frown upon the culture of the times, one might also take a look at Nancy as a top-drawer feminist--in fact, as are all of the women in these books.  Take Mr. Drew's sister: Eloise Drew, unmarried, a career woman, and living quite successfully in New York.  I believe Aunt Lou was a practicing attorney, and helped Nancy on more than one case...  See, it wasn't about deliberate attacks on this group or that; again, it was about society, commentary, the culture; and authors who used--yes--the ideal Girl Scout, as the epitome of the role model for Nancy's character.

This author did a very good job of discussing the slants in Nancy's world.  I have little doubt that those same slants were in far more books and series--e.g.: Mark Twain--than just Nancy Drew.  Hide the truth of the times, and they will re-live themselves.  Expose them for what they were, and they're valuable  lessons.

Nancy Drew is one of The Best aspects of my life.  She is alive and well, and with me every single day.  I am so glad that the author was as generous as she was, and wise.  Sometimes, people aren't so kind.  I have no patience with the politically correct: It's one thing to be courteous, polite, and civil. It's quite another to hide the truth, and live in a world that isn't or wasn't, or will never be: That is not Nancy Drew; it is the Emperor's New Clothes.

Moses ben Maimon: Cool Dude

"I got a crush on you, Sweetie Pie.  All the day and night-time, hear me sigh..."

Mr. Maimon as I call him, whose name was Moses, son of Maimon (also a distinguished rabbi) additionally is referred to as RaMBam (Rabbi Moses Ben Maimon), or Maimonides.  He lived around the Mediterranean--Spain, Morocco, Palestine, Egypt--from 1135 or 1138, until his death, in 1204.  He was a fox.

He was beyond brilliant, and he was a Renaissance man before there was a Renaissance.  He belonged with the likes of Leonardo, Copernicus, Galileo, and as many greats of the future as one can recall.  St. Thomas Aquinas was inspired by Maimonides and used his work to better understand nature, science, and the realm of God in Christianity. Maimon was without question, the greatest thinker of the Middle Ages. Even today, it's difficult to find an equal who would match the genius and this remarkable and truly worldly philosopher.

Mr. Maimon, in addition to writing extensive commentary on the Mishnah--part of the Hebrew Talmud or books of law based on the Hebrew Scriptures or Torah--and organizing virtually all of said Jewish law until that time--was actually a physician, a scientist, an astronomer, a nutritionist, and a worldly philosopher.  He practiced medicine, was court physician to Al Qadi al Fadil, whose father was the incomparable Saladin--magnificent medieval ruler.

Word has it, dates aside, that King Richard the Lion Heart, in the midst of his travels during the Crusades, wanted Maimonides in his own court; but that for the times, Maimon felt his safety was in better hands with the Muslims.  Remember, this was the time of the Crusades, and expulsions/executions of Jews throughout the European civilized world. Strange bedfellows, eh?

As a physician, Maimonides was dedicated to medication, cures for multiple diseases and conditions, and pharmacological study as well as its organization.  The Maimonidean Oath for doctors, is practiced today. His methodology was a precursor for pharmaceutical practice.  He was a health nut, and was firm about diet and exercise.  The famous portrait of him that most see, is a contrivance no doubt, and has been duplicated multiple times.

However, Maimon could not have been heavy-set, or beefy in construct, as it wasn't who he was, nutritionally.  Rather than looking like Chef Boyardee, Moses Maimonides had to have been slender. He walked back and forth to his offices from his home, on a daily basis, saw patients, saw the Vizier in his palace, wrote voluminously, corresponded, spoke publicly and traveled to do so, and led a very active and full life with little time for food or rest.  It's difficult to imagine that Mr. Maimon would be anything but slim.

He was a student of Greece, Rome, and Islam, living in that geographical area.  He was not familiar with northern European thought or influence to any great extent.

His hero was Aristotle: pure and simple. There were others such as Averroes.  But the Greeks were his mentors.  He had virtually no contemporaries with whom he consulted; and virtually no Jews.   Reason was always his guide; nature was his companion.  Maimon wasn't just a Jewish philosopher who sat in a room and contemplated.  He was out and about with the people, working for a living.  He was involved with what he wrote, he practiced what he thought.  His ideas were based not only on his readings, but on his experiences in the real world.

In all of Judaism, I cannot think of a better role model for myself.  Mr. Maimon tried to re-construct Judaism in order to make the spiritual, rational.  He tried to justify God's role in a scientific world.  He did not have the backing of the kind of power or money to be able to do that; but what he left Judaism and the rest of those who were familiar with him--the western medieval world as a whole, and centuries beyond--was a dedication to a God of rational--again, rather than spiritual--existence and rationale that made such a universe possible.

He appeared to some to be arrogant and self-centered.  Instead, it's more likely that he was just himself, and so far above others' ability to comprehend him, that the appearance of superiority was really just honesty. As they say, "It isn't bragging if it's the truth..."

He was quick-tempered, had no patience for idiocy or foolishness; he was not interested in people who couldn't "connect the dots." He did his best to withhold unkindnesses toward others in personal meetings; however, he was candid in his writings or when he confided with certain contemporaries, re: what he felt to be blatant stupidity.  He was schooled in multiple languages, and was at home in Hebrew, Greek, and Arabic, just for openers.

He had to have had an eidetic/photographic memory.  He was funny, witty, had fine senses of humor, sarcasm, and wit; he was very kind, patient with those who were ingenuous and mattered; he was dedicated, responsible, and wise.  In short, he was simply "the best of the best."

When he died, Mr. Maimon's books were burned by many, despite the honor and homage that he received when he was alive.  The fierce discipline to maintain a rational point of view toward God, rather than a simpler unquestioning other-worldly spiritual one, was simply too difficult and too abstract for most to manage.  People wanted a personal god who attended them.  Maimon's in actuality, did not.

Maimon understood that God could not be all of the anthropomorphic components that the Hebrew Scriptures espoused; and he also understood that God, out of respect for humanity, could not intervene in lives; thus, he felt that prayer was really for he who prayed, and not for God, at all.  There was nothing God, as Maimon defined Him, could do.  In order for man to have free will, God could not intervene, deus ex machina, in a person's life. Rather God was present as form, rather than matter--the Greeks--the essences of all.  It was a tough road for the average Joe in the marketplace or herding the flocks.

Again, make no mistake: Moses ben Maimon was one of the greatest innovators that the world has ever known.  He did his best to organize Judaism--the origin of Western religion and thus one of the initial elements of Western civilization-- into something intelligent and tangible.  Rather than tons and tons of arguments, dissensions, and loose documents from the past, Jewish law for the first time, became a practical guide that could be followed. He did the same with medicine, science, diet, pharmacology, nature, preventative medicine, and with God.  He cared, he tried, he did his best.  He was an incredibly sensitive man who was highly in tune, whether or not he appeared that way on the surface.  He worked at all things until he died.  He was devoted to improving the world:  His way, certainly; but isn't that the way we all are... I will speak of him again.

I am fortunate enough to have many heroes.  Today, people don't believe in heroes.  Without heroes, there is no society to emulate, no goals, no role models, no understanding of what could be, no direction or a value system; a warning signal that is a presage regarding the end of a culture.  However, Moses ben Maimon, is as real and heroic to my mind, as any individual whoever lived.

The Old Tailor: Made to Measure Magazine

(This article was originally written in the late '80's.)

When I was a child, I used to see him there, sitting in a non-descript corner, hunched over his machine. Acknowledging my father's watchful presence more than my brown-eyed curiosity, he would look up and nod as I would observe him cut the thread between his teeth.

Worn Singers--maybe six of them--and an old Pfaff, were stuffed into that back room like desks in a schoolhouse.  Instead of books, cones of sewing thread, boxes of buttons, rolls of braid, filled the shelves. And, like mollified students, they all sat there, the numbers of Eastern Europe engraved into their faces, their clothing belonging to a different time.

Trousers and vests hung on skinny men like jackets tossed on barbed wire fence posts.  Faded flowered silks (for there were no polyesters in those years) threatened to cover trundling women as though they were skins on bulging sausages.  They were old then--grey, stoop-shouldered, an dreamless--sewn into the linings of their world.   The years eventually took most of them, but the old tailor remained loyal.

I suppose he was only twenty, in those groping times when the world was righting itself from the War.  I think it must have been that I was so young, that he appeared so old. When he died, he was sixty-six; my memories are from many years ago.

His first name had been anglicized and he had a last name infiltrated with Polish phoneticisms--an infinite number of  "z's."  Medium build, medium height, his pride kept his spine as straight as a measuring stick all his life. But from the close work of the stitching, a roundness had grown into his shoulders, softening that very formal European discipline into an almost friendly stoop.

His eyes were quick to note a mistake, observant to follow a line.  I cannot recall their color, for there was no contrast to the shading of his face. Everything was grey.  The hair, straight and combed to one side, covered his baldness.  Occasionally, when he lost himself in his art, a strand or two would slip down over his brows, creating a casualness that might have made him a part of this world.  He had a sharp Aryan nose, and a large brown mole on his cheek that rose up in a rounded dome like a used pencil eraser. He always wore a too-wide tie and a too-tight coat; he always wore a hat--straw in the summer, felt in the winter.

He worked for my father for over forty years.  He did just about everything, because he was trained in the days when "everything" was what one did; when loyalty to the superior mattered; when quality was more than a quick stitch of a union label.  He had apprenticed as a boy, I imagine, in pre-War Poland.  Afterward, he came here, bringing with him a needle and thread, a pair of shears, and his accent. Nothing more.

In the early years, he did the master tailoring.  Hitch it up here; let it out there.  Dart. Pleat. No gusset. Watch the inseam.  This one is a portly--don't confuse him with a stout.  Sleeve lengths to match.  Careful when you cut, now--those lapels are getting narrower.  Single-breasted for him; double-breasted takes too much cloth and he's too broad across the chest.  Not too much padding in the shoulder.  Slimmer leg, please...

Eventually, the tailoring business became more of an eccentricity than a practicality.  As the shop became a factory, and the company grew to a corporation, the old tailor, in order to continue to survive, should have changed, also.  But he never grew or learned any more than his youth had taught him.  His pessimism over a lost world invaded his dulled being.  Now, they used the word "manufacturer" instead of "tailor."  It was longer, maybe. Fancier.  But to him, its real meaning was death.

He tried to leave once, when industrial replaced hand, when one suit became one hundred, when the single name "piecework" replaced the completeness of the whole garment.  He had in mind to buy his own shop--a small corner, downtown.  At last, out from under my father's shadow, he would be his own man.  Butler becoming boss.  His shop would be in the tradition of his world--suiting fabrics, shirt weights.  A small press in back with a good steam iron ought to do it.  Of course, a really good machine or two.  Maybe, if it went well, a helper.  But most of all, he, the old tailor, would celebrate his trade and his skill.  Tape measure around the neck--like a priest before the altar--he would dress the mannequin to approximate size. Clip the threads.  Check the button holes.  Brush the shoulders.  Amen.

He had purchased the shop with his savings.  Received my father's best wishes.  Was ready to own the life for which he had been trained.  But he had a wife--and at the proper moment, her greed coerced her into gambling.

If, for a few months, there actually had been a color to the old tailor's eyes, it was never seen again.  Only grimness and waiting and manufacturing remained.

He needed a job and my father needed a good man to run the shop.  "Shop" didn't mean the whole building, but those rooms confined to the cutting, sewing, and pressing of the garments.  My father never did find that "good man."  But the old tailor was there.  And, he did his best, I suppose.  Mostly pacing between this girl and that, watching how they sewed, wondering what to complain about next.

The flowered dresses were replaced with low-cut blouses and too-tight pants.  The seven machines reproduced themselves into twenty and thirty. The presses became the pressing room.  Electric cutting knives whirred, two and three at a time.  The women had become girls, and the Europeans had been replaced with Spanish, Indian, and Oriental blood.

It wasn't pride anymore.  It was survival and endurance.  Kibbitz with the girls.  Punch in--punch out.  A day's work. Most of all, disdain for modernity. Disgust with the distance between a man and his work; a love affair the old tailor testily missed.  It didn't matter how good the garment was.  To him, it wasn't right--it wasn't done with tenderness, or respect for the beauty of the fit.  The caring, the sighing, the becoming-at-one-with, were not there, any more.

The tailor made a poor foreman.  My father knew it.  The tailor, I imagine, knew it, but didn't care.  I believe for him, it was a simple transfer of professions: From creating, to observing others create.  The world had passed him by.

Almost too late, my father grew tired of the bigness of his work.  He sold the factory, and returned to the smaller shop.  A staff of nothing: Except that he still needed the old tailor.  Only a few days a week. Alterations. Hand stitching. A custom measurement now and then.  It was here that I saw the old gentleman gradually fail, fall apart, and finally die.

The manufacturing of suits had become the making of uniforms--for hotels, restaurants, and specialty groups. He would still take the bus each day to and from his torture, where he would be surrounded by brightly colored cocktail dresses and Mexican waitress skirts, hot-pants, and chambermaid garb.  Once again, rounded over his machine that was lit cautiously with a small refrigerator bulb, he would sit and baste. Snapping the thread between his teeth as he used to do, forty years ago.  He knew the feel of a good wool gab.  He could line up the buttons on a jacket by sight.  He ripped and re-sewed with the steadiness of the years.

I always thought he liked the ripping best, somehow.  When it wasn't his own work, it was a delight to correct.  To remind the others of what real tailoring and genuine workmanship were about.

The months passed. He muttered a lot.  At first to himself.  Then to the cloth.  Finally, to the audience of the presses.

His end was those hot steaming machines.  Mentally, he had grown quite slow, old memories stitching over the cloth of reality.  My father would have retired him, but the tailor's wife still gambled away their money. There was no other means for him to survive, but to work.  All that was available now that his skills were fading, were the presses.

He was as good at them as any other aspect of the trade. He was content to come in, fold his coat carefully on the chair, and place his hat neatly on their top.  He would smoke a cigarette and go to the back, where amidst conversations with himself, he would smooth a pant or two, using all his strength to pull down those big mangles and buck presses.

He worked until his last day.  Dignified, formal, polite.  As gracious to the imagined voices he heard as to the workers behind the cutting tables.  As critical of the twentieth century, as anyone I've known.  Vacant and shyly droll, always the Old World, in a tattered and worn sort of way.  His clothes never changed from those early, ill-fitted years, despite the thousands of hours he spent caressing the seams of others.

I felt sad when he died, not so much for him as for me.  Clearly, he was just too tired.  I wondered if, had I tried, I could have known him better.  I wondered if, had I succeeded, there would have been any greater depth to him than what I had observed.  The old tailor, like a worn suit of clothes, may well have been a disguise for someone very different underneath.

A Rose By Any Other Name: The National Association of the Deaf (NAD) Broadcaster

This article was originally written  for the above paper in June of 1991.  What is interesting is that not much as changed in almost 23 years.  People are still trying to figure out what to call themselves, hoping their labels will forecast how they ought to be judged.  The reality, of course, is that it is the individual who matters; the nomenclature and stereotypes will come and go.  Also, society will judge as it wishes, and all the fancy labels in the world cannot change what the public wants to think, once the public makes up its mind...  

I read, with some interest, Ms. Kailes' February, 1991 article on the use of language.  I don't disagree with the author and her viewpoint, but lately, I find so may people concerned with what to call each other; I wonder if the focus isn't shifting away from how to treat each other.

The American Indian/Redskin is now the docile Native American; the Oriental has morphed to the Asian; the once Colored then Negro then Black has become the African American; the Mexican is now the Hispanic or Latino, depending on specific geography of origin, despite sameness of language.

For awhile, the Deaf were the Hearing Impaired until it was decided that the oral Deaf would remain Hearing Impaired, and the signing Deaf would return to their original name and be just Deaf.  The handicapped want to be the disabled, or the challenged.

I wonder how the cultural anthropologists and sociologists manage to keep up!

The problem with "disabled" is the implication of time and brokenness/non-usable-ness; i.e., once one used to be able, but now because of circumstance, he is dis-abled.  The original meaning of the prefix "dis" (not) implies apart-ness, a whole no longer complete or now in two or more pieces.

A cup with the handle broken off is disabled.  A sink whose faucet has been disconnected is disabled.  A man whose leg has been amputated is disabled. There is a sense of time having passed.  There is an implication that that which was once useful and whole is no longer so; function is non-operable.

My daughter as born with multiple medical involvements.  No time passed; nothing happened to her that transformed her from a whole into parts.  I don't think of her as "dis," or "not."  Most of her parts work all right; some of her parts operate on a partial basis.  I don't recall abilities once hers, that are no more.  I do think of her as handicapped, as there are clearly tasks with which she needs special help; she always has and will require significant assistance.

Ms. Kailes refers to the term "handicapped" as being a derogatory one; it calls to her mind the individual on the street corner with cap in hand, begging.

(In truth, the hand in the cap--not the other way around--was an aspect of horse racing, many years ago in Great Britain; the jockeys, vying for the most advantageous place on the track, would draw numbers out of a cap; hence, the derivation of the word.  He who drew the best number, had the inside path; he who drew the worst number was stuck with the outside path and a greater likelihood of losing the race.  The good or ill fortune of the horse's position around the track was a result of the jockey's "hand-i-the-cap.")

In sports today, golfers and bowlers have handicaps; horse racing still awards handicaps; there is a handicap in betting. There is no shame in the word, or in the use.  Rather, the condemnation is in peoples' opinions.

Recently, I met a physician who denied both terms.  He liked the idea of the "exceptional body"  instead of either "disabled" or "handicapped." My, I thought, my little girl is only eight, and already, she's up there with Madonna and Marilyn Monroe.

I keep wondering when Jews are going to change their names.  Anti-Semitism increased by 18% this year; it certainly would be a good time to enhance self-image, and the concept of the altered "handle" is very much in vogue.  I was considering the possibility of "American Moses-ite..."
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If changing the name or label of an individual or a group assists with positive group or self-identity, I'm all for it.  If that same change also heightens the awareness and sensitivity levels of the broader society, I'm in favor of that, too.

I just hope people understand the old adage, "Actions speak louder than words."  Terms don't start out with positive or negative connotations, only objective denotations.  The former is imposed by the response from society. Once "queer" meant to be odd, and "gay" meant to be happy.  Now, both connote homosexuality--one negatively, one positively.

If "disabled" is more palatable than "handicapped," then let it be so.  If the larger community is more comfortable in accepting the disabled rather than the handicapped, I guess I think that's fine.  If individuals would rather be identified as "disabled," instead of "handicapped," I support that, too.  Often, it's not what the word means that counts; rather it's what the word implies.

The choice of this term or that is not what is most important, but rather that we are taking the time to care about our places and our acceptance in this world.  We are demanding to be recognized with a sense of pride and integrity.  As long as accomplishments measure up to the demands for verbal dignity, there should be no problem.

The Webmaster

I am old.  Bordering on ancient and senile, in fact. Depends on how old you are, as to how old I am.  You know how it is...  I live in the twentieth century. Trust me, it was a better place, a better time.  Sure, not as many doo-dads and conveniences; certainly, technology was a stick in the mud compared to what it is, today. However, people talked with one another in complete, un-abbreviated, grammatically correct, and meaningful sentences; what's more, they took the time.   Yep, they took the time to care, to listen, to understand, and maybe to offer a few kind words of advice, admonishment, or praise.

Today, a kid who is five years old, is exhausted at the end of the day. Not enough time.  It used to be that when we were young, the days crawled by, and we could hardly wait for them to pass so that we could grow up.  Now, girls in kindergarten are wearing black velvet with leopard collars and high heels. Time flies by with so much to do, people merely pass one another like strangers, albeit they even may live in the same house. Who has a meal together?  Who shares the day's events?  What happened to family, to quiet time alone, or with friends...?

Into this milieu I have been thrust, through no fault of my own: The twenty-first century.  The reality is that either I have to cope and get on with things, or lag behind and find myself even more lost and ostracized than I already am.  The Hallmark Channel can only take a person so far... Thus, in order to save myself, I found a webmaster.
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My webmaster has been such, since 1997.  He was a senior in college when he started with me.  A wise woman, to whom I am forever indebted, suggested him because she knew his mother.  One of those things. Dumb luck--or God's Will, if you prefer.  It is now 16 years later.  We're still surfing the 'Net. (How awesome do I sound?)

What can you say about a fellow who behaves like Dick Van Dyke, and is built like a dress-zipper with ears?  He is 6'6"+, and maybe weighs 165 pounds.  I come up to his rib cage. Go try to hug him.  He comes with instructions that require a Pogo stick, for any kind of physical familiarity.  I gave up long ago. If I want to give him an endearment, I rest my head just above his belly button, and go from there.

Here's the thing: He's terrific: A mensch.  When he was 21, he was that way; he's the same, now--he's humble and patient, has a sense of humor, is smart as can be, centered, responsible if a little absent-minded or too busy, and he's focused--all prerequisites if you're going to be in my corner.  The only differences are that now, he's got a lovely wife and two kids; he's smarter, wiser, and makes a good living. Otherwise, he's the same familiar old shoe--size 15.

He went through my website with me, back then.  It was like pulling teeth, for all that I needed, and what he had to do while he dragged me along with him: My ideas, his know-how and in-put. He got it done.  His first official website.  Mine, too, come to think of it...  It's still up and running, and attracts its own visitors. It's been through re-decoration and additions; it's just fine, thank you.

Currently, my webmaster has led me through Linked-in, and Facebook (oy...); now, we've pretty much finished this very blog. Can you believe it?  Can you believe I put an entire blog together??? (Well, of course, with the webmaster's huge help).  If I don't do this Stuff constantly, of course, I can't remember half of it. But, we won't go there.  When he and I are done with this project, it's on to Twitter. Oh!  For the record, I can also text--tra-la.

We meet for over an hour, once a month for lunch--usually eggs of some sort; my treat.  He teaches; I scramble--my brains, not the eggs.  Anything in-between our monthly sessions:  I either luck out, learn on my own, or cope.

Sometimes, fairytales do come true.  The webmaster is one of them.

I want to say, that if I had had to do any of this Stuff alone, I think I would have stuck to my Big Chief tablet and #2 Eberhard Faber yellow pencil. Longer to process, yes; but infinitely easier. Really.  I honestly get it, with the technological goodies.  It's incredible.

I also get it that the hours and hours and hours it takes to process all of it; fix it when it crashes or breaks down; call multiple "technical support" people--most of whom can barely speak English or can't think beyond their prepared, scripted instruction manuals; crawl around on the floor while they ask me to re-check what wires and buttons I've already checked; and remember on the side, how to relate to people as human beings rather than as mobs of pixels: All are hazards of the technological age. I don't think it's so hot, just between us.

Still, I want you to know that my webmaster is just the Best--no doubt.  He has even managed to make all this learning sort of interesting and fun.  I feel like I'm about six years old, in terms of know-how and capability; in truth, I'm older than his mother! Understand that I'm not hardwired for anything other than my bra.  So for this guy to hang in with me: I am so lucky.

Twentieth century lifestyle and values, absolutely.  Still, I cruise in the twenty-first, with the webmaster as captain of my technological ship.

Bully for You...Written for the Colorado Cross-Disabilties Coalition

People go into professions that suit their personal psychological needs as well as their physical and mental abilities.  A pediatrician, for example, usually has his own more childlike view of the world and enjoys children; a physician who treats only adults, will be more comfortable with patients and people who are over the age of 18.

Those who relate well with others, do just that in their workplaces--they enjoy the camaraderie of their colleagues, and their customers.  Folks who are more task oriented, preferring to involve themselves with skills rather than customers, orient to occupations that are duty-focused.  Individuals who would rather control or direct, are most often selected for leadership positions, not wanting to be confined to the day-to-day tasks, nor having to "relate" to folks as their primary goal.  These are your three types of workers: "Taskers;" leaders; "relaters."

It generally works this way.  Sadly, workers who are in the wrong jobs for their psychological needs, either don't remain there very long, or aren't very effective in terms of performance--let alone occupationally fulfilled.  Career preferences chosen according to an individual's psychological needs are as important as any training, schooling, or experience that one encounters.
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The world of disabilities is enormous.  Today, people are living longer, managing to survive terrible ordeals, illnesses, and deficits. When an infant or child is too immature to advocate for himself, when a person's physical, mental, or emotional abilities are compromised, when aging takes those properties from people who were at one time, able to function independently but no longer can, there is a dis-ability to participate adequately within the mainstream world.

Providers are called in: Caregivers in all varieties; social workers; healthcare professionals; medical support personnel; educators; job coaches;therapists; advocates; nurses along a wide spectrum of expertise re: special needs; agencies for this function or that.

One of the tragedies, yet all-too-frequent realities for the more "helpless victim" and the "rescuing caregiver" or provider, can be a blur between professional and personal needs on the parts of the caregivers and/or the people who are in charge.

The primary role of the caregiver, in any capacity, is not meant to be a personal one, but a professional one. There are boundaries or limits between client and caregiver; there are duties or executive orders that lie between them. While a caregiver must be compassionate and understanding in his job, the role of a provider primarily is not about being a people person, so much as it is about being a task person.  Get the job done, provide comfort and proper care, above all. Duty first.  Or the patient can be injured or die. Nurturing, protection, enabling, have their places; however, the caregiver's focus must be objective, and separate from the client or patient, before all personal involvements.

What can happen, when an individual who is primarily a people person (who wants to be friends, pals, a parent or sibling) is placed in the caregiver's dutiful role, and that professional is truly not suited for properly performing regimented tasks and executing details, lines get crossed.  The caregiver who is more personally people oriented instead of distanced, disciplined, and objective enough to perform and organize in an exemplary manner, ends up re-focusing his or her own "duties" so that they become more about controlling the patient, rather than seeing to those elements that surround the patient, and support his wellbeing.  A kind of guardian effect may occur, where the healthcare professional decides that a personal relationship with the client is more important than the tasks this professional was originally hired to perform: Father knows best? Mother knows best?  Nope.  Support person knows best. And, that's not okay.

Caregivers, providers, support people, or agencies of any type, can easily slip away from the tasks at hand, and become instead, very people oriented or personally involved with the patient.  Thus, the priority of the caregiver is no longer about objective care, but subjectively about the patient needing care that seemingly only the caregiver can provide; that only the caregiver knows how to provide.  It creates a dependency, and it validates the caregiver's psychological need to be personally connected, in order to be of value.  The tasks the caregiver was originally hired to perform for the patient, become secondary to the caregiver's own psychological needs.

What is potentially worse is the same scenario but where the caregiver becomes a leader, or puts himself in charge of the patient; a role of importance and control, not through a personal relationship, but rather through a kind of executive decision made by the caregiver, himself.  This healthcare provider or caregiver, legislates the needs of the particular client or patient to the exclusion of others--including the patient, himself.   Control gradually becomes absolute.  It is no longer about the patient's receiving objectively evaluated care from a competent task person; all else is subordinated to the caregiver's need to control, commanding others to do what was once the caregiver's actual task-oriented job of scheduling, organizing, and executing specific duties.

The inappropriate shift in roles, in order to fill personal psychological needs, warps a caregiver in whatever capacity; the thrust of that individual toward his client, student, or patient, is no longer a clear, distanced evaluative focus, but rather one of superiority.  It's all too easy when tending folks who are challenged in one way or another, to forget about respect, empathy, distancing, boundaries; and to slip into the role of ruler, surrogate parent, or boss.   Providers and caregivers, remember, come in all sorts of ancillary job descriptions, when networking the world of healthcare.

People who are caregivers or providers in agency work or on their own; who have more psychological needs than their particular job placement may provide; on a day-in-day-out, year-by-year kind of schedule (particularly with the same clients for extended periods of time); are most susceptible when it comes to slipping out of their assigned duty-oriented careers; rather, they ease into an orientation of control.

Certainly, there are practical reasons that exist for caregivers to have a certain amount of supervisory influence, when people are disabled or challenged; these professionals are presumably trained accordingly, they have experience, and they are familiar with the patient's history in one way or another.  It is true that patients often need direction from others, in order to guide and assist themselves.

However, direction is one thing; bullying is quite another.

Simply because a person or agency has done a job for years and years and years; has expertise in his field; has taken responsibility in various areas of his vocation; it does not give him a green light when it comes to taking charge of another person's life, to the exclusion of that individual's personal rights or the rights of others. When it comes to contribution, input, or care that is of significant benefit to a patient or client, there must be shared responsibility between all parties; the professionals must stick to the job descriptions they were meant to carry out.

When any caregiver or support person takes over the rights of a particular individual; when that individual becomes manipulated or less independent as a result of increasing control on the part of that caregiver, what is referred to as "for your own good," is more aptly  labeled "ego trip."  It speaks to the psychological needs of a healthcare professional or agency gone awry and who has turned away from the tasks that are his responsibility;  instead, twisting his job to suit himself, either by creating a too dependent relationship with the client, or by legislating what the client needs or ought to do:  Not only so that it ostensibly suits the client, but primarily so that it suits the caregiver's needs to control, as well.

Either way, it's about personal psychological needs trumping job-description. It's about bullying rather than advocating for the patient's right to be treated as normally as possible, and with as much dignity and respect as possible, given his special situation.

Five Finger Exercise

I would like to say that I come from a long line of Fingernails.  Every woman in our family has had Fingernails since I can remember.  Generations of Fingernails.  Manicured, buffed, polished to the nine's.  Deep reds, wines, and burgundies.

It all started with Cherries In The Snow--Charles Revson's, and Revlon's, very first shade of adapted automobile paint--helping women to buck up during the Depression and War effort.

Always, Fingernails.  It was never an issue among us.  Since I was six years old, I had long nails.   I learned to take care of them myself, albeit I didn't start wearing red polish for years and years:  A family tradition. One wasn't human, let alone a female or feminine, without Fingernails.  I was convinced that they possessed some bit of magical power, in order to make a woman complete.  I had to have them.  Inwardly, I knew this.

When I was ten, I made the fatal mistake of taking piano lessons. Who knew? I was the bane of my teacher's existence.  Why?  The long fingernails.  Did you know that in order to play the piano, one has to have Short fingernails?  Yes.  I took lessons year after year, and it was an ongoing battle about the fingernails. Clickety clack, clickety clack, upon the keys.  My teacher, who was petite, tremulous, dressed in flowered silks without a brassiere, and with eminently blue hair, wanted--nay, demanded--my nails be short; to round the hand, curve the fingers, hit the keys with the soft pads of the quiet fingertips.  Power to the upper knuckles and carpals. A fair request.

I, on the other hand, wanted to look utterly gorgeous from the wrists down, even in the fifth grade.  Why not?  Everyone in my family was gorgeous in the very same way.  Long, luscious nails upon even longer, artistic and beautifully sculpted fingers and hands. Do you have any idea how refreshing it is, when doing arithmetic assignments, or a social studies paper, to absentmindedly take a break, and gaze down at such elegant, slender, appendages?  My hands were so lovely that when I injured them, nothing could give me greater pleasure than to dote on the ethereal beauty of their X-rayed poise.  Think of it.

After all, I only "tickled the ivories" a few hours a week; yet, I reasoned, I had to look at my hands, 24/7.  It was obvious.  Materialistic and empirical piano vs. spiritual, eternally beautiful hands.  What's to discuss?

Ultimately, I quit the lessons, and my fingers were at peace.  I quit for other reasons, too--like ongoing migraine headaches every Monday on the spot, about four hours before lesson-time. The nails were a part of the pain.  I assure you.
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Life came, and life has gone by.
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Now, don't drop your drawers, but I'm taking piano lessons, again.  Same piano.  Same practicing only a lot more, same everything.  Different teacher (the old one died years ago). Same Fingernails.  Only, this time, with the red polish: The true family tradition remember, from generation to generation. (L'dor v' dor.)

Wouldn't you know it?  Here we go again.

This time, the nails are eminently shorter--down to the nub.  The style has changed:  Computers, touch-screens, and smart phones are the name of the game.  Short nails are a prerequisite for survival in the information age. However, I would like to say, they are not short enough for my piano teacher, and this one doesn't even have blue hair!

So help me. I clip, I file.  The nails are Below the fingertips!  But, they click. I have tall cuticles; I have long nail beds.  No matter what I do, I still click rather than tickle, the keys.  My own rhythm section.

I've taken to giving myself a manicure the night before the lessons.  I hope this will do the trick. Maybe she won't notice.  I have painted them a neutral color so that the teacher can see how stubby and minuscule these nails are, relative to their potential.  My nails short, are longer than many women's, long!  It's the way God made me.  I'm stuck.

What can you say about a woman who has three pianos--including a baby grand that substitutes as the dining room table under a chandelier-- in a living room/dining room area that's maybe 10'x15'?  There is a heavy, Victorian jacquarded tapestry of a sofa with antique gold fringe hanging all about, two over-stuffed chairs, a disc-player, and two mammoth felines. Definitely, a room out of necessity, that commands absolute order and control; everything must be in its place. Including the Fingernails. Or Else.

There you are.  I am caught.  I love the music, discipline myself to the practicing, thoroughly enjoy the teacher, delight over the charmingly petite house--fringe and all.  What to do, what to do...

Um, maybe I should tell you that my teacher had her cats de-clawed.  Do you think this is in the back of her mind?  Naaaaah, couldn't be.  Or could it?

A God Story #1

Do you believe in God?  I do.  He keeps popping up on me.  Or, maybe it's His angels--my angels.  Anyway, I don't mean to get mushy on you, or mystical.  It's just that I have empirical God stories.  I'm going to tell you one of them.  It just happened, yesterday.

I have a password book.  Dumb.  Lose the book, and lose my life.  You know how it goes.  In the meantime, I have the book.  Hundreds of passwords.  I've done a lot of re-arranging and moving lately, because I moved my office home.  (We'll talk about that another time.)  

As things began to finalize/be finished up, I began to relax and to get comfortable.  Hundreds of papers, books, new items and doo-dads, everywhere. I'm not used to where everything is yet, because I'm not used to having all this Stuff in my house to know that it's here; let alone where it is!

Time passed. Maybe a couple of weeks.  Very hectic in the meantime, with company, the holidays, getting caught up with the business, my daughter's care, etc. 

Then, last week, I focused on Facebook--figured I'd make my mark there.  It had been months and months, and it was time to catch up. 

I went to look for the password book:  Absent and unaccounted for.  Odd, I thought.  I know it's' here...

I wasn't so worried, because I knew it had to be Somewhere.  Slowly and methodically, I began to look. The days went by.  I looked harder.  At first, it was topical.  Then, beneath and into and under. Oy...  

I was reminded of the little story, Where's Spot?  Is he here? No.  Is he there?  Not there.  Is he over in the other place?  Nope.  Not in the other place, either... 

Uh, oh...

After a week, I recruited my daughter's nurse.  Search, search. search. Under furniture, in drawers, throughout closets; peculiar places that it couldn't be--but might.  I checked, cleaned, and swept the spots in the garage; every where in my three offices.  The trash, the shredded papers.  I called places I thought maybe I took it and left it.  The good news is that it had been about a month, and no one had tried to log in as me: Another reason to think the book was at home.  

Nevertheless, no password book.  

It wasn't just the newspaper or the stock market check-up passwords, you understand.  It was serious: Social Security, insurance, the computers, banks--you know, important things.  It occurred to me to get frantic.  Yet, I still and all, couldn't fathom that I had lost that book.  I kept looking.

On Wednesday, I went for luncheon with a friend.  Delicious belated birthday, at a swell Italian restaurant. Maggiano's. (Ever been there? mmmmmmmm...  The one I like best is downtown, and old in feel--lots of photos of historic Denver.  Leather booths, checkered table cloths...  Black and white parquet floors in the bathrooms.  Dark wood trim and wainscoting with white striated marble walls.  Brass trim.  Perfect.  But I digress.)

My friend and I eat.  It comes time for dessert. The waiter brings it, gratis, for the special occasion, and with the skinniest pink birthday candle I've ever seen.  Twine dipped in wax and straightened.  About 6" tall.  He lights the wick, and I make a wish.

Wishes over birthday cakes, at least for me, don't mean much; I don't take them seriously.  (Just between us.)

This time, however, in all the years of wishing, I figured I really had a good, legitimate wish.  Instead of saving the world, or the environment, or the poor and starving--wishes that couldn't come true in a million years from my or anyone's birthday candle--I had a serious thought.  Not just a wish--a fervent request.  In fact, a prayer.

I'm not one to ask God for things.  I figure He's got a lot on His mind with the weather, wars, and all; and the best I can do is to have Him grant me the strength to help me help myself.  That's my usual petitioning prayer. With a "Thank you" up front.

I think, OK, this is a birthday wish, and By Golly, I'm going to take advantage of the occasion.  I'm desperate. (I hope God doesn't mind the imposition, too much.)  

My wish had become a prayer, and I asked for help to find the password book.  (Of course, you guessed this.)  I say "Thank you" first--up front--as I prayed.  

From the birthday candle fairy, I had transitioned to God:  "Upper Management."

Losing a password book is serious business.  I needed to rely on Someone more powerful than I.

I wish, I pray, I hope and hope and hope.  Omain.

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Five minutes later, as my friend and I begin to start in with the dessert, Hillary's nurse calls me at the restaurant. No kidding.  No. Kidding.

"Hello!" she says cheerily.  "I have something to tell you."

I smile inwardly.  I know what it is.  "You found the password book," I return, quietly.

"How on earth did you know?!"  She is stupefied.

"Because I asked God to find it just minutes ago, and He did,"  I said.

Our nurse of 29 years, 77 years old, whose husband was pastor of their church, is abashed.  "When did you ask God to help you find it?" she queried.  

"About 5 minutes ago," I said with a smile.

The nurse didn't question for a moment.  She knew this was right.  The book had been stuck in the couch, under the cushions.  I had searched the couch twice.  The nurse had searched the couch herself, a few days ago.  For whatever reason, today, she went back and looked in the couch, again. Bingo.  There was the book.

So you go figure.  But I figure God found it.  I figure He knew right where it was, and when I asked Him, He couldn't refuse.  So He found it for us.  The nurse got the credit.  Albeit, she refused the promised monetary reward. Her reward came from Heaven.  She was humbled to be the servant of the Lord, as they say.  You can just bet that she saw the entire procedure as a testimony to God's existence, which she has known all along.  

She's right.

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And, there you are.  One of my God stories.  You might say, "Aw, that's just a coincidence."  

My response to that:  Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.  

"If I Am Not For Myself, Who Will Be For Me? If I Am Only For Myself, What Am I?" ...Rabbi Hillel (Essay)

The biggest problem facing humanity today:  Its own inhumanity--hubris. 

Before technology began to replace human interaction, science overtook religion to explain unknowns, secularism eradicated the notion of God, the family unit imploded; there was a bottom line--Morality.  For over 4,000 years, Judeo-Christian ethics--(Do unto others as you would have others do unto you) have been the watchwords by which people have treated one another fairly, supervised by a morally supreme being. 

Far from perfect, mankind nevertheless has done its best to live by these moral precepts, with recognition that one's fellow men, and the past/present/future, all have bearing.  

Today, we live only for the present:  What feels good for me, now;  not what I think is best for the greater good, over the long-term.

Our world swirls around us faster than we can comprehend; we are losing our way. Without morality to guide our actions and behaviors, and a moral being more knowledgeable and powerful than we; we cannot survive. We are without responsible leaders, heroes who respect laws or one another; someone to guide us/set standards/or point the way.  The biggest problem facing humanity today:  The naively arrogant belief that we outrank God.

Am I Retiring, Transitioning, or Re-Inventing?

We've been in business for 77 years.  I sold my building: Offices, showroom with fitting area, the actual factory.  Not a huge place as manufacturing plants go, but figure a big fish in a little pond.  Since 1936, ain't bad.

The garment industry in the United States is all but dead; the custom garment industry is dead.  I have business, I have customers.  But not enough to earn a living.  Labor today is all off-shore for any kind of tailoring expertise and decent pricing; what our custom shop has always been about. As one of the last shops in our line of manufacturing--if not the last--it was time to bail.

I had to move.  I got rid of the overhead (Thank God), and I got rid of all those things I am responsible for but can't control; eg: The Facility, the Equipment, and the Help.  You don't want to own a factory in this day and age, if you can help it.  I'm telling you.  At least 50% of my professional life has been about apologising for this mistake, or that mal-function.  The only honors I got out of the deal were the joys of saying, "I'm sorry," and giving courtesy discounts. Mazel Tov.

But OK.  So, now, I'm moved.  Where?  I don't want to go through the entire process with you, but trust me; it wasn't a charmer.   The cost of renting a new space, buying a new space, adding a new space onto my home, squeezing everything I needed into my house as is; were all possibilities.

I have a friend who thinks I ought to have had a Plan.  Are you kidding? What plan?  I needed to get out of the building in order to save the overall   company--you know, the proverbial handwriting on the wall:  I needed to stop the financial hemorrhaging, and the mistakes.  This wasn't something that was self-contained and dependent on my decisions, alone; rather it demanded that all the outsiders' chips fell in their own proper order.

One day, a guy makes an offer on the building.  OK.  I figure it all out.  Get it all ready.  Then the sale falls through.  Plan?  So I continue on, in my original operational mode.  Six months later, another offer.  OK. This time, the thing goes through but with closing in four weeks.  An entire--if small--77 year old manufacturing operation--close down, sort, and pack up in 20 days; all the while with orders in work.  

In the meantime, the folks I was going to take with me to a new, littler shop, decided to retire, altogether. Surprise...  

So that's the end of the factory.  In all fairness, one former worker is 80, another is 73; we're not talking Spring Chickens, here.  But between the first and second purported sales of the building, everything changed, including any kind of income projection.  Thus, rentals/purchases of smaller manufacturing facilities, were out the window.  How now, Brown Cow?

The bids to add on a home office came in at $35,000.  For 10'x10'.  No kidding. Small volume pricing. Thus, I rented: An inside storage facility unit. Same size as the home add-on, but for $181/month including insurance.  At this rate, I can keep my new "satellite office" for almost 17 years, before I come close to the $35,000 addition.  

You would love the satellite office.  It's two blocks away, so Sydney--my dog--and I can walk to work.  It's done in used brick with Columbia blue and white trim, and looks like traditional model homes.  (The complex cries out for red geraniums).  The place has all the comforts of home except electricity (other than the bare bulb overhead); and the bathroom that is three buildings away.

It's almost perfect.  I have Kleenex, a chair, a shipping table with a scale, my boxes/tape/wrapping tissue/labels, a broom and dustpan along with a wastebasket, step-stool, 15 file cabinets of payables and receivables, and over 200 aprons that I couldn't bear to part with (let me know if you're interested in purchasing...)   It's the best.  A mezuzah is on the doorpost, along with a Jewish calendar for the year, 5774. The UPS office is down the street; I pack up the uniforms in this petite shipping department, and schlep box after box rather than paying extra for the driver in the big brown truck, to pick up.

My family-room at home in the basement, along with my upstairs study, comprise the rest of my corporate offices. Downstairs are the "accounting and business offices."  Everything I need to run the show, as long as I don't have to cut cloth in my own shop.  I can cut cloth with other folks; I can press; I can sew--all outside. I can screen-print and embroider.  Same thing. But I can't cut in-house.  So far. That's my limit.  I have others who can do the manufacturing in their own shops (aka contractors and sub-contractors), or I can sell ready-to-wear (uniforms from other manufacturers that are made off-shore and merely pulled from shelves, and shipped.)

Upstairs is the "creative/executive" office with all the business machines.  Yes.  I'm writing to you from this office, right now.

I'm continually getting settled, as the days go by.  Still working like mad to squeeze it all in.  Adding new activities, as my hours and time are now my own. No one I have to apologise for or yell at.  No machines to fail or be damaged by well-intentioned "experts."  I'm working every day and so far, longer than I ought. Just to get caught up and get on some kind of schedule. (Sometimes, a customer may get a call from me as late as 1:00 a.m....)

Now, you tell me.  People say, "Ohhhhh, I'm so happy you retired!"   Am I retired?  I have 3 office spaces, separate phone/fax/email /business cards, and UPS bills.  "Well, but no, you're at home, now, so that's not really working." Maybe if I drove around the block every morning before I sat down at my desk so that I could "arrive" at my offices by 8:00, that would help.  

Others write books about "transitioning."  My own "transition" either must be because I've morphed from young to old, and/or because America has given up the ghost where blue-collar skills are concerned.  It's the same business, the same name, the same Stuff.  No in-house factory to be sure, but in every other way, it's the same.  We've always had cottage industry. Even this isn't new.

Tell me, what have I transitioned besides my moving from my factory to my home?  Still feels the same to me.  I answer the phone the same.  I dunno.  I guess the transition is in the loss of overhead and liabilities, and I don't have to apologise so much, any more.

Finally, and best, are those who insist I'm re-inventing myself.  Um, I lost 10 pounds.  Does that mean I'm re-invented?  Trust me: I'm still the same impossible person I have always been, which is why I'm not a team player and work for myself.  I'm in the same business, doing the same thing: Fashion.  Only, I'm more relaxed now because I can focus on selling the clothing, rather than putting out all the fires and rescuing the help.

Talking It Over

My daughter is severely and multiply disabled.  However, I've raised her at home for 31 years, as a "well," "normal" child.  I refer to her as a "child," because she's 5'1", weighs 100 pounds, is quite boyish in appearance, and lives in the world of Mario, and Sonic the Hedgehog.  She really is a child.

I also have Sydney, the pooch.  It's taken about a year and a half for the two to bond; for Hillary to realize that sibling rivalry is not necessary between the two of them, and that I can care about both the dog and my daughter differently but equally, at the same time.  No one loses; I don't play favorites.  Except sometimes...

Yesterday, it came time in the dog's routine to go outside and pee; alas, it was raining.  I told Hillary to let Sydney go, but to watch him and not make him stay out there, drenched, any longer than necessary.  He is only 10 pounds, after all; just a little fellow.

She lets him out.  Then, she follows him.  In the rain.   Because Hillary is deaf, we speak in Sign language. Hillary also has a tracheotomy tube, so she cannot vocalize or utter a sound.  "Away! Away!" she flaps, her arms outstretched, and pumping up and down at the wrists.  Syd, who by now has gotten the gist of things with Hillary, understands what this means without a single spoken word; he obediently pads down the stairs of the back stoop.

With a backward glower, it is clear that he is not happy to go out in the rain; nevertheless, he unwillingly lopes toward the middle of the grassy yard.  Hillary's next move is to sign to him, "Toilet! Hurry!"  Being a fellow of few words, himself, Sydney looks at her with a, "Who, me?  What was that you said, again?"

Hil thinks about this, and figures it out.  It all happens in a second.  She will have to be more explicit; more direct.  In her mind, it is Sydney who is at the disadvantage.  After all, he has paws and not fingers; Sign language comes more slowly for him.

Thus, in an effort to help him understand, Hillary gracefully lifts her left leg into a full hoist, while she stands there at the top of the stoop.  As if to pee.  Sydney, wet and circling there on the grass, looks up at her in the rain, considering this.

Hillary has no time to lose.  The rain is coming down faster, and she is getting wet, too.  She moves closer to the dog, edging toward the lawn.  She lifts her leg again higher, at least two feet off the ground, and shakes it so that Sydney will be sure to observe the posture he is supposed to take.

Still, however, no results.

This time, Hillary considers a change of plans.  Perhaps a metaphor, she thinks:  She puts her "hind" leg down, and from both knees, squats, girl-style.  Figuring that perhaps Sydney isn't used to seeing her pee like a male dog, he might relate better to her peeing like a female dog.   Interestingly, this move inspires him, and he begins to circle and sniff more seriously; the rain is ever-present.

Observing that she has made progress, but not quite enough--and particularly given the wetness of things-- Hillary stands upright again, lifts her left leg, then her right, and back to her left, holding each for a moment or two--high up and extended--bent at the knee.  What do you know?!  Sydney stops, stares, and processes what the message is all about.  Looking at Hillary, as if looking at his instructor in a ballet studio, Sydney, too, lifts his leg, and makes the effort to pee.  ...  Success!

Hold it!  Maintain that position!  Ahhhhh.  Both child and hound lower their legs in tandem, together: Smoothly, rapidly, finally. She smiles, in charge; he relaxes, obedient.  Now, they may go inside; both pleased with themselves and each other.

The rain continued to fall and, quickly both hurried for dry comfort.  Hillary gave a backward glance toward the grey sky and pouring down heavy drops of water.  Her arms flew up, and once again her hands bent at the wrists, flapping up and down at the out of doors; the original motion she had made, instead of signing Away, marked, "Finished!"

Reflecting Upon the Assassination of JFK, 50 Years Later: Intermountain Jewish News

Neftali/Shutterstock.com

Then, it was time for the World War II generation to take its place as leader--not only of the free world, but of the entire globe.  He was paradigmatic of the American Dream.  He tried his best, grew as he learned, was gracious and witty, intelligent and cosmopolitan.  His breeding and eloquence never lessened his sense of the people.

No matter his failings, he personified the new and greatest generation.  When the War was over, the old men stood aside; he stepped up to bat.  America was the top of the heap; he was proof that we had arrived.  In the years that proceeded him, his generation remained the best of the best; what this nation was all about.  "Ask not what your country can do for you;" he counseled.  "Ask what you can do for your country."

She, on the other hand, was beyond compare:  Strikingly handsome, bright, at once unafraid to lead and be feminine, she was all that he was and more.  I saw her at the theatre: Radiant--an aura.  Dressed in white in the darkened audience, she was a lovely golden glow.  She savored being a woman, a bon vivant, a certain kind of unspoken ethereal power.

Yet, uppermost were her efforts and joys as a mother, safeguarding her children's wellbeing and independence.  Never mind her reigning duties, her peccadilloes; her children were her focus.  She understood that as her personal legacy, they were her responsibility.  "If you bungle raising your children," she said, "I don't think whatever else you do, matters very much."

In the shadows, an underside of the flourishing Dream was the insistence of entitlement that came with a realization of success.  Signaled by his demise, that darker visage continually expanded itself, extinguishing those ideals of integrity, determination, achievement, gratitude.

It took almost 200 years for him to epitomize whom we were inspired to become.  It took less than a generation for us to implode upon ourselves.  He is dead, his generation almost gone, the United States as it was intended to be, is done.

Of this, I am always aware: He was but a symbol; what might have been.

The Unhemmed Skirt: Fashionable Young Women of the 21st Century

Yesterday, we had a showing re: the sale of the building: The Wesleyans (Methodists, as you no doubt know). A group called Mosaic, which I think is their outreach program for downtrodden urban centers... seem like nice folks.

Toward the end of the showing, one gal is talking with Tom, my broker, in my office, and they're reviewing codes, etc. I'm sitting there, working. The girl is a slender tall, black woman with perfectly matched everything and fun black braided, woven hair. Jewelry, etc. all pinks and wines and puces... Little bowed Pappagallo ballerina flats with bugle beads and sequins. Again, exactingly attired.

Except for one thing: She was wearing a tea-length, tiered, cotton/gauze/muslin dyed skirt (remember those?) in the softest shade of burgundy--how nice. It went beautifully. However, each tier had tons of loose threads hanging from it. Tons. The hem was missing altogether: It simply wasn't. Just raw cloth that looked as though a heel had gotten caught in the stitching, pulled out the entire thing. It was hanging jaggedly, with more threads, all the way around.

Ghastly.

Here was this absolutely lovely girl, dressed to the nine's, with threads hanging everywhere... I couldn't take it. I simply couldn't.

Thus: While she was talking with Tom about the codes, laws, remodeling the bathrooms for the handicapped, etc., regarding moving an outreach church into my building, I quietly took out my shears and clipped the threads on her skirt. Not the tiers because there were too many threads on every layer around the skirt; I worried i might be sued for sexual harassment if I felt my way up from mid-calf to hips. But I did take the wad of muslin that was the large, gathered long skirt hem,, and I continued clipping away. Tons of burgundy shavings fell to the floor.

Interestingly, neither Tom nor the young woman missed a beat in their conversation. I just went on trimming. I can't tell you how happy it made me to see that Mess disappear.

When I was finished, the girl said to me, "You know my mother can't stand this skirt. She doesn't think it should have these threads, either. But this is the way I bought it."

I said to her, "Your mother is right. It's terrible. You're a pretty girl, delightfully dressed, and the skirt looks like it got caught around the center post in the washing machine." I went on, "I bet you paid extra for the manufacturer not to hem the skirt, or finish off the edges."

She confessed it was indeed costly.

I told her that now, she looked 100% better, she still had all the hanging mess on the tiers of the skirt, but that at least the hem wasn't in shreds any more; it was still raw unfinished cloth, so that she could feel as Bohemian as she wished without the stragglers, dripping down. She looked at me.

I said, "You'll thank me later."

Tom, who has been on oxygen since he met me, and has to keep slapping himself to reassure that I'm for real, rather fainted after this. Being raised with the sisters in Ohio Catholic schools, he is not used to my wanton flagrancy...

When he left, he said they would never buy the building...
***

Today, we got an offer from said church, for the highest amount, yet. Higher than any of the previously interested folks. Tom was in a swoon. He said he'd never in 30 years had three simultaneous offers on a single building. He couldn't believe it. Thing is, they want me out in three weeks and I have orders to finish.

Oy.

Tom says I can pay them rent. I said, "Listen, Tom. I'll pay the taxes, the utilities, the bills, for as long as I'm there; I will be out by the 4th of August or sooner. But I have to have time for my customers."

He said, "You'll have to pay rent."

I said, "Tell the gal that instead of rent, I'll finish clipping the threads on the skirt. No charge. That that alone should take care of it."

He said, "No, really. What can you pay in rent?"

I said, "Yes, really. I'll pay all the bills for as long as I'm there, and I'll fix her skirt. Start there. Then, we'll see if we need to negotiate." And that.was.that.

I'll let you know what ensues.
***

That's also why I guess I can't work at Macy's, should I want to go back to retailing. My time has come and gone... If a customer were to come in hideously attired in my opinion, or if new merchandise were to arrive that wasn't right, I would just take a scissor and cut away, or throw away. The store and the customer would be much better off for my assistance. I have no doubt. The thing is, I'm not sure management or the customer would agree. Even though I know they would "thank me later..."

Irish Dessert: A Reflection of the Irish People

I'm standing here, or rather sitting at this moment, in a bib apron and my house shoes. Nothing else. It's too hot.

I just rouued my first lade.  I hope it works.

I think for desserts, it's called a roll.  Meat is for the other.

In an Irish cookbook, whipped cream, raspberries, and chocolate in a powder sugared towel is a roulade.

It's cooling as we speak.

We'll hope for the best.

I hope I don't have a bent broken brownie.

I have no idea how this works.

I went to Joy of Cooking which has pictures and instructions, thank Heaven.

The Irish cookbook assumes that if one is Irish, one already knows how to cook.

It reminds me of the time it said to put noodles in a casserole dish with tuna and mushroom soup, and bake. Never said a thing about boiling the noodles in water, first.

Or the time it said to put two tomatoes in a pan of water and heat, for sauce.  Never said a thing about cutting them up, first.

Or the time it said to put a chicken in the oven at 425 for 2 hours until brown.   Never said to turn on the oven, first.  I even put it in the oven at 4:15.

Soon, I'll go and whip the whipping cream.  Boing.  Peaks.  What I'm supposed to look like in this apron. but don't, and never did.

Probably, I could have used Cool Whip and gotten the same effect.

I mean, Ready Whip.  In the can.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

I figure it will either be charming, or a small heap of stuff.

It should taste the same either way.

I wonder if they're hiring in the kitchen at the School For The Blind...