Saturday, March 29, 2014
Though I seem to be functioning at an even keel, if you peer below the surface, insight suggests waves of turbulence repressed deep inside my mind, because over these past several weeks, I've found myself easily confused, suggestive of emotional static displacing logical thought. For example, I'm not certain as to whether Friday's post #972 had been published after the editing process was complete, because, this morning, I found it in drafts. So in case you missed reading yesterday's post, please check back before starting today's, or you may end up feeling as confused as I've been since my mother's passing, coupled with the fact that Will's next psa test is coming up, and if his numbers do not improve, two months of daily radiation lie directly ahead—and if you wonder at my ability to write stories in this state of mind, well the brain is made up of many compartments, and my story-telling frame of mind seems to function fine at this time, as long as I'm writing about my parents' youth.
Having clarified my current state of mind, let's throw our time machine into reverse, so we can see where my grandpa's idealistic thought processing patterns led his family to sail off to, next, because reminiscing over my parents' stories keeps my spirit afloat. As long as my spirit is afloat (and though the depth of my loss draws forth my awareness of feeling weepy) I can buoy Will's frame of mind as his next psa test draws near. It's as though intuition has been suspending my emotional reaction until some time in the near future, when I'll feel free to stop holding my breath, let down my hair and free tears, dammed up inside, to flow, as in—there she blows …
So okay, here we are back in 1933, and as soon as our seat belts are unbuckled, let's walk down the gangplank and set foot upon the continent where my grandpa's tendency toward embracing idealistic trains of thought encouraged his family to settle, next—suggesting that the strong-hearted spirits of guys and gals, imbued with our family genes, simply won't stay down for the count …
If you ask why my grandfather had need to pack up his family and sail across the sea a second time, I'd reply: Yacob had learned that immigrant life in the U.S. provided no free lunch, most expecially during The Great Depression, and as diehard idealists are allergic to disillusionment, my grandpa got itchy for greener pastures, which meant selling nearly everything he'd worked so hard to own in order to book passage for his family of five to sail across the ocean—however, rather than returning to Poland, idealism marched Yacob's active mind forward toward embracing Zionism …
As told to me by my father, it did not take much for the Zionist movement to convince my grandpa that, upon venturing into Palestine, his family of five would assuredly be amongst those who would transform this Mid Eastern wasteland … uh, I mean desert habitat into a thriving agricultural Mecca ...
As it turns out, Yacob must have proved as persuasive as he had been readily persuaded, because in short order, my grandpa inspired my father, by now, a high school graduate, to embrace his father's positive attitude in that Jack felt so eager to absorb the newest innovations in desert irrigation that, upon packing his things in a nap sack, my eighteen-year old father hitch-hiked cross country to Pennsylvania, where he'd been accepted into agricultural college.
Early one evening while my dad was hitching rides, the heavens opened up and it poured cats and dogs, so being short on funds and soaked to the skin, Jack came up with a simple plan that offered him safe haven from the fiercely windy storm in that he'd convinced the local police to offer him shelter, dinner and a cot inside a cell. Thus with this positive, inventive attitude stoking his mind, Jack arrived at farm school in high spirits and as was his habit, my father whistled while he'd worked in preparation for a future filled with success once his pioneering adventures in Palestine got underway.
Dad's enthusiastic spirit loved every new experience he'd encountered throughout his two years in farm school. How do I know that to be true? During my childhood, Dad's eyes shone with delight whenever he'd regale my friends, invited to dinner-sleepovers, with tales of his adventurous interactions with Mother Nature.
Though I seem to be functioning at an even keel, if you peer below the surface, insight suggests waves of turbulence repressed deep inside my mind, because over these past several weeks, I've found myself easily confused, suggestive of emotional static displacing logical thought. For example, I'm not certain as to whether Friday's post #972 had been published after the editing process was complete, because, this morning, I found it in drafts. So in case you missed reading yesterday's post, please check back before starting today's, or you may end up feeling as confused as I've been since my mother's passing, coupled with the fact that Will's next psa test is coming up, and if his numbers do not improve, two months of daily radiation lie directly ahead—and if you wonder at my ability to write stories in this state of mind, well the brain is made up of many compartments, and my story-telling frame of mind seems to function fine at this time, as long as I'm writing about my parents' youth.
Having clarified my current state of mind, let's throw our time machine into reverse, so we can see where my grandpa's idealistic thought processing patterns led his family to sail off to, next, because reminiscing over my parents' stories keeps my spirit afloat. As long as my spirit is afloat (and though the depth of my loss draws forth my awareness of feeling weepy) I can buoy Will's frame of mind as his next psa test draws near. It's as though intuition has been suspending my emotional reaction until some time in the near future, when I'll feel free to stop holding my breath, let down my hair and free tears, dammed up inside, to flow, as in—there she blows …
So okay, here we are back in 1933, and as soon as our seat belts are unbuckled, let's walk down the gangplank and set foot upon the continent where my grandpa's tendency toward embracing idealistic trains of thought encouraged his family to settle, next—suggesting that the strong-hearted spirits of guys and gals, imbued with our family genes, simply won't stay down for the count …
If you ask why my grandfather had need to pack up his family and sail across the sea a second time, I'd reply: Yacob had learned that immigrant life in the U.S. provided no free lunch, most expecially during The Great Depression, and as diehard idealists are allergic to disillusionment, my grandpa got itchy for greener pastures, which meant selling nearly everything he'd worked so hard to own in order to book passage for his family of five to sail across the ocean—however, rather than returning to Poland, idealism marched Yacob's active mind forward toward embracing Zionism …
As told to me by my father, it did not take much for the Zionist movement to convince my grandpa that, upon venturing into Palestine, his family of five would assuredly be amongst those who would transform this Mid Eastern wasteland … uh, I mean desert habitat into a thriving agricultural Mecca ...
As it turns out, Yacob must have proved as persuasive as he had been readily persuaded, because in short order, my grandpa inspired my father, by now, a high school graduate, to embrace his father's positive attitude in that Jack felt so eager to absorb the newest innovations in desert irrigation that, upon packing his things in a nap sack, my eighteen-year old father hitch-hiked cross country to Pennsylvania, where he'd been accepted into agricultural college.
Early one evening while my dad was hitching rides, the heavens opened up and it poured cats and dogs, so being short on funds and soaked to the skin, Jack came up with a simple plan that offered him safe haven from the fiercely windy storm in that he'd convinced the local police to offer him shelter, dinner and a cot inside a cell. Thus with this positive, inventive attitude stoking his mind, Jack arrived at farm school in high spirits and as was his habit, my father whistled while he'd worked in preparation for a future filled with success once his pioneering adventures in Palestine got underway.
Dad's enthusiastic spirit loved every new experience he'd encountered throughout his two years in farm school. How do I know that to be true? During my childhood, Dad's eyes shone with delight whenever he'd regale my friends, invited to dinner-sleepovers, with tales of his adventurous interactions with Mother Nature.
I especially remember one Fiday night when Grandma Ella, face darkening with exasperation, pushed her chair back from our formal dining room table and ran furiously out of the room, muttering Yiddish expletives under her breath, so agast was she, while Dad, in high spirits, did not miss a beat describing his vividly detailed account of heavily muscled, full grown bulls, weighing over 2000 pounds, instinctively lowering their heads while charging across fields, aiming to leap high enough to mount unsuspecting cows from the rear, bellowing for all within earshot to hear, during the mating season.
I mean, imagine the tone of that ribald conversation taking place while Grandma Ella's matzoh balls, floating light as air in bowls of steamy, savory chicken soup, melted in the shocked-to-the-max mouths of our dropped-jawed, young dinner guests. Guess it's safe to say that no topic of conversation was considered too indelicate to be discussed on the Sabbath in our home, at least that proved true as long as Dad, being king of his castle, reigned supreme on his throne :)
I remember Springtime, when my father's lushly colored garden proved him as avid a gardener as one of our home movies shows Dad setting a fine figure on horseback, one hand controlling the reins while the other held five year old me securely in front of him on the western saddle, where I'd gripped the horn with both hands, and with my long, dark braids bouncing up and down, the flickering reel of film shows my high flying spirit shining forth from a pair of blue eyes, sparkling with pure delight, so completely enthralled had I felt while cantering atop this powerful steed with my sense of safety nesting trustfully within the pocket of Dad's love for me …
As long as I'd felt embraced within my father's strong spirited sense of safe keeping, my youthful sense of adventure matched his, as seen, years later, when I'd delighted in riding horseback, twice weekly, cantering along the canal before trusting my steed to climb to the top of the mountain behind my desert home—Wow!—I just likened my choice of dwelling in the desert to Dad's choice to irrigate the desert, so many years ago—Whoops, here I go getting too far ahead of myself; I mean, today's post is no where near that point in my parents' love story where Jennie and Jack have so much as met, suggesting that we circle back to the holy land, where promises made in 1933, concerning irrigating the sandy terrain of this parched and thirsty land, would not come true until the Zionist Movement, which had been in earnest, had raised sufficient funds, years after The Great Depression was over. And though my father felt rightfully, deeply disappointed to see his education lay as fallow as did the promised land when farm equipment, necessary for success, had failed to materialize, reflection suggests that the fault of that failure had been a combination of timing and fate, meaning that he and Grandpa had not been duped.
Even so, you can imagine Grandpa's idealistic spirit feeling seriously dejected, again, suggesting the wisdom of consciously working to develop an ever deepening awareness of self-defeating patterns. (As for me, I know myself not to leap into any experience with both feet—no matter how desirable—without first carefully considering consequences on all sides …)
As my aunts had enjoyed their childhood in the states, this pair of city-bred pre-teens dug in their heels, insisting that, upon turning eighteen, both would determinedly sail back to the good, old civilized USA in hopes of, one day, attending colleges with English being the primary language. When both Sari and Risa became quite ill, and no doctor could be found, the pilot light on my grandpa's sense of disillusionment did more than flicker back to life. In fact, over the next few months, Yacob's darkening attitude concurred with that of his daughters, who'd understandably preferred the comforts of citified civilization over pioneering without benefit of aid in the barren lands of Palestine.
As neither promised tools nor financial aid were forthcoming, premature promises on the part of Zionist leadership resembled fool's gold, and as Yacob's daughters' lingering illness undermined their parents' hopes for all five to thrive, spirits sunk, while tummies, rumbling with hunger, caused my grandpa's disillusioned grumblings to flare, anew, day after day, until Yacob's sights zeroed in on ocean crossing number three.
(Interestingly, Jack and Jennie had been vacationing in Israel when the Yom Kippur War broke out in 1967. At that time, Jack, who'd reached the age of 54, enjoyed a joyous, tearful reunion with his Uncle Nuete, who'd wisely moved to Jerusalem, several years before Nazi Germany attacked Poland, and thus did Nuete and his family escape the unfathomable fate of those unfortunates who'd been herded into boxcars, chugging toward concentration camps, where humanity was inhumanely stripped of all dignity when naked and gasping for breath, the lives of men, women and children had been systematically showered with poisoned gas, burned in crematoriums and buried, by their own, in graves too massive for sanity to behold.
Thus does wartime classically depict the worst of times and the best of times, suggesting, once again, that timing is everything, because—once WWII got underway and factories in the USA fired up, opportunities for employment improved to such an extent that Nuete's pioneering adventures in Palestine had flourished in ways that proved impossible, several years earlier, for Yacob and Jack.
Though my Grandpa's younger brother wrote letter after letter to the states, attempting to convince his older brother's family to return to the holy land, thereby reuniting with extented family during the late thirties, Grandpa had finally had enough of starting over from scratch—and perhaps we can attribute that decision to timing, as well, because I wouldn't be surprised if age had factored into Grandpa's choice to stay put in the Midwest. You see, Nuete, who'd only uprooted, once, had been ten years younger than his brother, Yacob, ten years older than his beloved nephew, Jack—suggesting, upon second thought, that Nuete had been more older brother than father figure to his absent brother's child.
At any rate, if Grandpa had decided to give the USA a second chance in 1933, then that left twenty-year old Jack to wrestle with this heart-wrenching choice: Career over family or family over career. As Jack had been a child of seven, crying inconsolably upon separating from his beloved Uncle Neute, who'd proved a loving, male authority figure until Bailey and her small son had sailed away from Poland, forever, my father chose to maintain familial bonds with his parents and sisters, when all five set sail across the sea. As Jack had no crystal ball, he'd no clue that Nuete would, one day, make his home in Palestine. So though my father would not have freely chosen to abandon his passion for innovative agricultural methodology, his hearty spirit had focused upon keeping his family intact. Thus, just as Yacob had had to abandon his chosen profession to earn his keep at the age of twenty, so did Jack sail away from his chosen profession, as in—like father, like son.
A couple of weeks ago, while sitting next to my mom's bed with my 91 year old, Aunt Risa, I'd thought to ask how her father had managed to come up with five ocean passages when her family had returned to the states, destitute. Aunt Risa's response was instantaneous: She had no clue.
So much for the story I'd heard in the past, suggesting that Yacob had treasure with which to make a trade. As the earlier version of this story went, my grandma had insisted upon schlepping her prized clothes washer and stove from the states to the holy land, where technologically advanced machines proved so rare that Grandpa was offered enough cash to purchase passage for five, weary pioneers, who, upon sailing to America, had agreed that life behind door number two offered more prizes to hard working men and women than had door number one or door number three … suggesting, once again, that, along with attitude, timing is everything, which is why it proves wise to reflect over decisions in need of reconsideration in hopes that creative thought processing will produce lasting solutions so that yesterday's conflicts don't raise their heads, anew. (I'm going to email Aunt Risa and ask about that washer and stove …)
Just as Yacob, who'd sailed from Poland to America, circa 1913, had persuaded his family to sail from America to Palestine, circa 1933, all five circled back to America, later, that same year. And upon disembarking, this time, my Grandma and Grandpa put their heads together in hopes of planting roots (figuratively) so deep within fertile Midwest soil that within the next few posts, you and I will rejoice to see my beloved dad sweep my precious mother off her dancing feet and into his car, where his thoughts of a good time with a hot babe were dashed by this young woman, who'd wisely introduced Jack to her four cousins before accepting this dashing dude's invitation to grab some dinner, and so if Jennie's intuition had erred, and Romeo tried any funny stuff, her cousins could play witness in case of foul play!
As to what took place once Juliet had been swept into Jack's Romeo-machine, please tune in tomorrow—Oh wait—see what I mean about my brain feeling fuzzy, easily confused—
As educated agriculturalists, technologically proficient in desert irrigation, were not in high demand in any major Midwestern metropolis, most especially during the depression, we need to see how the men of the house, namely, Yacob and young, strapping Jack, along with my Grandma Bailey had brainstormed until a simple plan came to mind by which this trio of adults managed to feed, shelter and support each other as well as a pair of bright, pre-teen-aged girls, both of whom felt overjoyed, more than either had thought possible, upon walking into their respective classes on their first day back to school …
Surely you've heard, as have I, how often people say: 'I didn't appreciate what I had till it was gone'. Well, with that thought in mind, I've chosen to live my life to the fullest, every day, suggesting that if you have won my love and, even more important, my trust, I'll do my best to express my thoughts, clearly, while wearing my heart on my sleeve, whether in your presence or not … and if you ask why I'd freely choose to expose my vulnerability, my reply would be most sincere: When it comes to offering the best of oneself to everyone we love and trust, vulnerability proves to be a strength … on the other hand, give me reason, repeatedly, to withdraw my trust, and I'll be quiet as a mouse—not just any mouse—Mighty Mouse …
I mean, imagine the tone of that ribald conversation taking place while Grandma Ella's matzoh balls, floating light as air in bowls of steamy, savory chicken soup, melted in the shocked-to-the-max mouths of our dropped-jawed, young dinner guests. Guess it's safe to say that no topic of conversation was considered too indelicate to be discussed on the Sabbath in our home, at least that proved true as long as Dad, being king of his castle, reigned supreme on his throne :)
I remember Springtime, when my father's lushly colored garden proved him as avid a gardener as one of our home movies shows Dad setting a fine figure on horseback, one hand controlling the reins while the other held five year old me securely in front of him on the western saddle, where I'd gripped the horn with both hands, and with my long, dark braids bouncing up and down, the flickering reel of film shows my high flying spirit shining forth from a pair of blue eyes, sparkling with pure delight, so completely enthralled had I felt while cantering atop this powerful steed with my sense of safety nesting trustfully within the pocket of Dad's love for me …
As long as I'd felt embraced within my father's strong spirited sense of safe keeping, my youthful sense of adventure matched his, as seen, years later, when I'd delighted in riding horseback, twice weekly, cantering along the canal before trusting my steed to climb to the top of the mountain behind my desert home—Wow!—I just likened my choice of dwelling in the desert to Dad's choice to irrigate the desert, so many years ago—Whoops, here I go getting too far ahead of myself; I mean, today's post is no where near that point in my parents' love story where Jennie and Jack have so much as met, suggesting that we circle back to the holy land, where promises made in 1933, concerning irrigating the sandy terrain of this parched and thirsty land, would not come true until the Zionist Movement, which had been in earnest, had raised sufficient funds, years after The Great Depression was over. And though my father felt rightfully, deeply disappointed to see his education lay as fallow as did the promised land when farm equipment, necessary for success, had failed to materialize, reflection suggests that the fault of that failure had been a combination of timing and fate, meaning that he and Grandpa had not been duped.
Even so, you can imagine Grandpa's idealistic spirit feeling seriously dejected, again, suggesting the wisdom of consciously working to develop an ever deepening awareness of self-defeating patterns. (As for me, I know myself not to leap into any experience with both feet—no matter how desirable—without first carefully considering consequences on all sides …)
As my aunts had enjoyed their childhood in the states, this pair of city-bred pre-teens dug in their heels, insisting that, upon turning eighteen, both would determinedly sail back to the good, old civilized USA in hopes of, one day, attending colleges with English being the primary language. When both Sari and Risa became quite ill, and no doctor could be found, the pilot light on my grandpa's sense of disillusionment did more than flicker back to life. In fact, over the next few months, Yacob's darkening attitude concurred with that of his daughters, who'd understandably preferred the comforts of citified civilization over pioneering without benefit of aid in the barren lands of Palestine.
As neither promised tools nor financial aid were forthcoming, premature promises on the part of Zionist leadership resembled fool's gold, and as Yacob's daughters' lingering illness undermined their parents' hopes for all five to thrive, spirits sunk, while tummies, rumbling with hunger, caused my grandpa's disillusioned grumblings to flare, anew, day after day, until Yacob's sights zeroed in on ocean crossing number three.
(Interestingly, Jack and Jennie had been vacationing in Israel when the Yom Kippur War broke out in 1967. At that time, Jack, who'd reached the age of 54, enjoyed a joyous, tearful reunion with his Uncle Nuete, who'd wisely moved to Jerusalem, several years before Nazi Germany attacked Poland, and thus did Nuete and his family escape the unfathomable fate of those unfortunates who'd been herded into boxcars, chugging toward concentration camps, where humanity was inhumanely stripped of all dignity when naked and gasping for breath, the lives of men, women and children had been systematically showered with poisoned gas, burned in crematoriums and buried, by their own, in graves too massive for sanity to behold.
Thus does wartime classically depict the worst of times and the best of times, suggesting, once again, that timing is everything, because—once WWII got underway and factories in the USA fired up, opportunities for employment improved to such an extent that Nuete's pioneering adventures in Palestine had flourished in ways that proved impossible, several years earlier, for Yacob and Jack.
Though my Grandpa's younger brother wrote letter after letter to the states, attempting to convince his older brother's family to return to the holy land, thereby reuniting with extented family during the late thirties, Grandpa had finally had enough of starting over from scratch—and perhaps we can attribute that decision to timing, as well, because I wouldn't be surprised if age had factored into Grandpa's choice to stay put in the Midwest. You see, Nuete, who'd only uprooted, once, had been ten years younger than his brother, Yacob, ten years older than his beloved nephew, Jack—suggesting, upon second thought, that Nuete had been more older brother than father figure to his absent brother's child.
At any rate, if Grandpa had decided to give the USA a second chance in 1933, then that left twenty-year old Jack to wrestle with this heart-wrenching choice: Career over family or family over career. As Jack had been a child of seven, crying inconsolably upon separating from his beloved Uncle Neute, who'd proved a loving, male authority figure until Bailey and her small son had sailed away from Poland, forever, my father chose to maintain familial bonds with his parents and sisters, when all five set sail across the sea. As Jack had no crystal ball, he'd no clue that Nuete would, one day, make his home in Palestine. So though my father would not have freely chosen to abandon his passion for innovative agricultural methodology, his hearty spirit had focused upon keeping his family intact. Thus, just as Yacob had had to abandon his chosen profession to earn his keep at the age of twenty, so did Jack sail away from his chosen profession, as in—like father, like son.
A couple of weeks ago, while sitting next to my mom's bed with my 91 year old, Aunt Risa, I'd thought to ask how her father had managed to come up with five ocean passages when her family had returned to the states, destitute. Aunt Risa's response was instantaneous: She had no clue.
So much for the story I'd heard in the past, suggesting that Yacob had treasure with which to make a trade. As the earlier version of this story went, my grandma had insisted upon schlepping her prized clothes washer and stove from the states to the holy land, where technologically advanced machines proved so rare that Grandpa was offered enough cash to purchase passage for five, weary pioneers, who, upon sailing to America, had agreed that life behind door number two offered more prizes to hard working men and women than had door number one or door number three … suggesting, once again, that, along with attitude, timing is everything, which is why it proves wise to reflect over decisions in need of reconsideration in hopes that creative thought processing will produce lasting solutions so that yesterday's conflicts don't raise their heads, anew. (I'm going to email Aunt Risa and ask about that washer and stove …)
Just as Yacob, who'd sailed from Poland to America, circa 1913, had persuaded his family to sail from America to Palestine, circa 1933, all five circled back to America, later, that same year. And upon disembarking, this time, my Grandma and Grandpa put their heads together in hopes of planting roots (figuratively) so deep within fertile Midwest soil that within the next few posts, you and I will rejoice to see my beloved dad sweep my precious mother off her dancing feet and into his car, where his thoughts of a good time with a hot babe were dashed by this young woman, who'd wisely introduced Jack to her four cousins before accepting this dashing dude's invitation to grab some dinner, and so if Jennie's intuition had erred, and Romeo tried any funny stuff, her cousins could play witness in case of foul play!
As to what took place once Juliet had been swept into Jack's Romeo-machine, please tune in tomorrow—Oh wait—see what I mean about my brain feeling fuzzy, easily confused—
As educated agriculturalists, technologically proficient in desert irrigation, were not in high demand in any major Midwestern metropolis, most especially during the depression, we need to see how the men of the house, namely, Yacob and young, strapping Jack, along with my Grandma Bailey had brainstormed until a simple plan came to mind by which this trio of adults managed to feed, shelter and support each other as well as a pair of bright, pre-teen-aged girls, both of whom felt overjoyed, more than either had thought possible, upon walking into their respective classes on their first day back to school …
Surely you've heard, as have I, how often people say: 'I didn't appreciate what I had till it was gone'. Well, with that thought in mind, I've chosen to live my life to the fullest, every day, suggesting that if you have won my love and, even more important, my trust, I'll do my best to express my thoughts, clearly, while wearing my heart on my sleeve, whether in your presence or not … and if you ask why I'd freely choose to expose my vulnerability, my reply would be most sincere: When it comes to offering the best of oneself to everyone we love and trust, vulnerability proves to be a strength … on the other hand, give me reason, repeatedly, to withdraw my trust, and I'll be quiet as a mouse—not just any mouse—Mighty Mouse …
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