The Gift of the Marzipan Magi

Our friend John’s parents,  like my husband Danny’s,  fled Europe in the late 1930s as the Nazi horror was unfolding.  John’s folks went first to Shanghai,  and then on to the States,  where a few months later John was born. (“I was made in China.”  he’ll tell you.)

During that same torturous time Danny’s parents sailed to South America and settled in Bolivia where Danny was born,  before they too immigrated to the States.

Both families adjusted to their new American lives,  and sent their sons to the local schools.  But of course at home they kept many of their European tastes and sensibilities,  and John and Danny had each been imbued with an appreciation for fine chocolate,  rich pastry,  and all things confectionary.

One day we were driving past a favorite candy shop when Danny stopped the car,  went in,  and soon came out with two boxes.  “I bought some marzipan for us and some for John too,  I know he loves it.”  Danny said.

From the car I called John intending to say we had something for him and would drop by.  His wife Midge answered,  said John was out,  but he’d come over to our house later as by chance he had something for Danny.

An hour later our doorbell rang.  There was John,  and under his arm – a box of marzipan.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Growing up in Michigan, where we have each season, I appreciated each one for its unique character, but autumn was always my favorite, with the glorious colors of the changing leaves, the crispness of the air, the bonfires we had after we helped my dad rake the leaves (no longer permitted, but I did love the smell), the rustle the leaves made underfoot. As the Jewish New Year arrived, it became a contemplative time. I grew older and more self-reflective.

I think of myself now in the autumn of my years yet I know that winter is hard upon me. I’ve had surgery on several toes that still bother me and this year, on my left ankle, discovering a great deal of inflammation in the capsule surrounding the joint. I feel aches and pains in various joints and my back is an ongoing dilemma; still I fight on. We’ve lost close friends. All parents are long gone. As the youngest of a large generation of first cousins at the age of 72, my cousins are leaving me behind. I deeply mourn each lost loved one. Words don’t come as quickly as they once did. I still have the enthusiasm, if not the energy. After 21 years, I still sing in my chorus, but have lost my top notes. I wonder how much longer singing will be satisfying.

Now there are two adorable granddaughters to love and hold dear. They keep us young, while also exhausting us. We marvel at the imagination and joy that emanate from such little people. They are in the spring of their existence, just beginning to bud and flower. We can’t wait to see them in the full bloom of their summer.

As someone with a December birthday, winter was always a festive time for me, though mine was often combined with other occasions like Hanukkah, as seen in this photo, my sixth birthday, with the decorations above the mantel. In Detroit we always had snow on the ground by December 10.

Ready for 6th birthday party

Coming from Russia, my grandparents didn’t know their birthdays. My grandfather celebrated his on Christmas, so we always went to Toledo to celebrate and there were lots of home movies of the grandchildren kissing our grandparents in front of a big, decorated tree, as we would go out to a nice hotel for a festive meal; something I now find ironic, since it was brutal pogroms that caused my grandparents to come to this country in the first place.

A dear friend was my birthday “twin”; we didn’t just share a birthday – we were both Midwesterners born on the same day, 45 minutes apart. For years we celebrated our birthdays together. Here we are 10 years ago.

With “birthday twin”, 2014

Marianne lost her battle with cancer in September, 2023. This painful loss serves as a reminder of my own mortality; that I am in the winter of my days. Her widower and I held each other closely at her wake, “What will we do on December 10 now?” I assured him that we would continue to celebrate, to pay tribute to his wonderful wife. Last year he wanted to be with his children for dinner, so we went to brunch. This year, we had quite the adventure.

He is a former bio-tech executive and still sits on many boards. He had to be in Washington, DC on the 10th, so we scheduled dinner in a nice Newton restaurant for the 11th. He asked to push back the reservation time a bit to ensure he could make it, given the timing of his flight. Then WEATHER happened. I got alerts about a “bombogenesis”, or a “bomb cyclone” happening on the 11th. It rained all day on the 10th, but accelerated on the 11th with a low pressure area rapidly deepening. The temperature climbed from the 30s into the 60s. I looked at my husband and said, “Rich isn’t going to make it back for dinner tomorrow night”. Sure enough, around 12:30, I got a call, “My flight was cancelled. I’m booked on an earlier flight, in a Uber on the way to the airport, but the flight is due to leave in 45 minutes and I still have to clear security. I’m trying! I’ll let you know what happens.” At 1:13pm I got a text that he’d made the flight (it was still delayed, but got into Boston before the worst of the storm)! We all waded our way through high winds and pouring rain and convened at the (packed) restaurant, for a wonderful meal and a toast to our friendship and Marianne.

Celebrating, despite the weather

Climate change means that I no longer have a white birthday. This was the first time I had a bomb cyclone for my birthday. I guess I have to be prepared for change and decline. Those are the only constants these days.

Princess Summerfall Winterspring

(Not exactly a “four seasons” story,  but I plead poetic license!)

I’m sure generations younger than mine find it hard to believe many of us had no TV in our early years.  In fact my family was the last on our Bronx block to get one.  And so every weeknight at 5:30 I ran down to my friend Nancy’s house to watch Howdy Doody where I was captivated by the lovely Princess Summerfall Winterspring.

Today her characterization would surely be politically incorrect,  but those were the post-war 1950s,  the time and place New York historian Lloyd Ultan called  “the Bronx in the innocent years”.

And oh, to recapture those innocent years!

RetroFlash / 100 Words

– Dana Susan Lehrman

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Post Office Philosopher 

Recently two of my out-of-town friends had birthdays and as both are serious readers I thought they’d enjoy a good book I’d just read.

So I bought two more copies,  wrapped each for mailing,  and headed to the post office where I found John my favorite postal guy behind the counter,

“I’ll send them book rate.”  he said putting the first one on the scale.  “It’ll be $4.95.”  And so I took out a $10 bill to cover the anticipated postage for two.

Then John put the second book on the scale.  “This one will be $5.80.”  he said

Puzzled I told John that the two books were identical and should weigh and cost the same.

”Ah yes,  they should,”  said my post office philosopher,  “but life is a bitter mystery.”

So true.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

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