My sister and I sat frozen in wonder as we watched.
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Grace's bugle will shatter the silent spring with piercing streams of silver. Four notes will hold up the sky while they echo through the cemetery, layered like too many tears on a little girl’s cheek.
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Doing original theater is very different from dredging up the old chestnuts. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but laugh.
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We are lucky to own a home on Martha’s Vineyard. This paradise island, 7 miles off the coast of Massachusetts, has been settled since the early 1600s, and been a vacation destination since the 1800s. Comprised of six distinct towns, we own a historic colonial, the Holmes Coffin House, built in 1829 in the village of Edgartown. Each town has its own flavor and function, from seaport to farming community. Each also has different beaches, a few private with keys passed down from generation to generation, one nude beach all the way at the western tip of the island, a few beaches known for calm shores. The 1975 blockbuster movie “Jaws” was filmed on State Beach, which runs along the road from Edgartown to Oak Bluffs, on the eastern coast and is littered with umbrellas, wind surfers and babies on a hot summer day. The water is usually calm.

We go to South Beach, which runs along the entire south coast of the island, but at our end, runs 3 miles long. Edgartown is the eastern end of the island, and not really a port town, though in the summer, a small non-car ferry comes into our harbor a few times a day. Our town has the old porticoed homes built by the whaling captains, so is the most elegant of the towns. The downtown has a fair amount of good shopping, along with the requisite ice cream and tee shirt shops.

But the expanse of the beach goes on and on. You could have friends on the beach and not know they were there. There is a huge undertow so you must watch the little ones. Both our kids were pulled under when they were young and had to be rescued by Dad. We often see a seal, bobbing along just past where we might be swimming. The waves kick up and it can be difficult to get out of the water. Parking is all along the road; one then walks along the dunes to get onto the beach, not far at all, but much better now that our kids are grown and we don’t have to carry loads of toys, food, blankets and other paraphernalia.

We have a nice, large group of friends who all sit together on the beach. We sit, read, nap, talk…all very pleasant. Plans for the evening will be made that afternoon. If you skip the beach, you won’t know what’s going on. We’ve watched the kids grow and now there are grandkids around the circle (not for us). There is support of all sorts – lawyers, doctors, builders, insurance brokers, social workers, speech therapists; great professional help comes in all stripes at the beach. You can always find out what is the best book, the new movie, who is doing what in the current political climate (we are all liberal, but interesting points of view are expressed). Good conversation, good friendships, long walks all flourish at the beach.

Food is eaten (though I have been dieting for years now). One must be mindful of the gulls. They are big, bold and everywhere. Fearless, they swoop in and will take food right out of your hand, even out of the corner of your mouth! So we are mindful of what we leave around; nothing is left uncovered. The guys and younger girls go into the ocean. We older women might dip our feet. Occasionally (as seen in the photo), some of us actually swim, but not often. I find it difficult to get out if I do go in. And salt water is brutal on the hair. But on a hot day, there is nothing more refreshing. And the smell of the ocean is cat-nip, even for this native Michigander. It brings up images of waves, sand, surf, setting sun, the occasional hurricane (thank goodness we haven’t had a big one in a long time, but the immense power is still something to reckon with).

When our kids were little and the house was new, we went to the Vineyard in the winter and drove out on the beach when everything was frozen. The kids got out of the car and romped around, delighted with the crystalline sand, playing, bundled up their snowsuits and mittens. It was a magical time in our lives. The beach took on a different light altogether. It has provided indelible memories.

I recently witnessed a highly successful businessman query a 20-something about her background, her upbringing and her 5-year plan. I remember a mentor telling me to make a 5-year plan. I can assure you, things never worked out as I anticipated.

I always loved the arts, my degree is in Theatre Arts and I have a teaching certificate that says I could teach High School English and Speech, but I got married right out of college without a job and teaching positions were hard to come by. I needed to work, so at a party in August, 1974, I begged for a job at the computer company which employed my husband, soon going off to grad school. I knew nothing about computers. I cut off my long nails and set to work doing data entry, singing Gilbert & Sullivan at the top of my lungs out of sheer boredom. But I am smart and curious, open to learning new things. I was soon managing a small data center and other people. But I knew this wasn’t what I wanted to do. I am a people person. I talked my way into a sales job, moving to Chicago to attain it.

This was 1978 and women on the road were a novelty. I had to work extra-hard, be twice as good and be very careful. I learned quickly, knew when to ask for help, how to close a deal.

Never be afraid to ask questions. It may sound trite, but no question is stupid, and don’t be afraid to take risks. Growth follows. You can’t plan for that. Be a good listener. Be organized. Take notes, stay focused. Show empathy. That may all seem self-evident, but it is harder than it looks. I used to say that you could tell the state of my mind by the clutter on my desk.

Take time to take care of yourself. Exercise and eat well. Developing good habits from the start will keep you in good health for the long haul. Don’t be afraid to indulge occasionally. When I was first on my own and making very little money, I put away a few dollars each week for “pissing” money…I could piss it away on anything I wanted. It wasn’t much, but I could take myself to lunch and a movie and that felt great. Have a few good friends and stay in touch. Don’t ever lose them. They are as important, perhaps more so, than family. They are your sounding board and will stick with you, even when the going gets tough.

Delight in the unexpected. Don’t be thrown by it. Your path will not be straight; it is the twists and turns that make life interesting. Embrace them, grow with them. Do not let them defeat you. Whatever you choose to do, do it to the best of your ability. Take pride in what you do, but do not be boastful. Let others see that you are happy in your life and your good work and contentment will follow.

My 10th grade Geometry teacher was William Sturley. He had just graduated from college and received a one-year deferment to teach us. He had gone through school on an ROTC scholarship and was due to ship out to Vietnam as soon as this teaching year was over. He was small and sturdy with glasses, an infectious smile and great enthusiasm for his subject and students.

His students were less enthusiastic about him. They called him “Boom-Boom Billy” because he was so gung-ho about the military, Vietnam and service to his country. He did military drills for us at the front of the classroom. The kids were brutal to him, but his good nature persisted. He a was newbie teacher and it showed, but what he lacked in experience, he made up in enthusiasm. Patti was in this class with me and we recently reminisced about him fondly, thinking some kids had teased him good-naturedly, though I reminded her that others had been less pleasant to the young man. Vietnam was already profoundly disliked by all of us. It was a war we did not support or believe in and we did not distinguish between serving our country and supporting that terrible conflict. Nevertheless, he soldiered on.

Before leaving for his military duty, he sent a surprising letter to my parents. My mother saved it for a scrapbook she put together for me, full of awards and accomplishments. Dated June 4, 1968, it read:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sarason:

As you probably realize the impersonal contact between home and school is often inadequate for expressing the progress and standing of most students.
Although there are many students of outstanding academic ability there are few who possess the qualities needed to place them perceptively above their peers. I have found Betsy to be one of these rare people. She is undoubtedly a very capable student and, I’m happy to report, one who always does her best. Betsy possesses the charm, wit, maturity and leadership abilities to carry her far. I must say that I really admire her integrity and honestness not only in her schoolwork, but in all her endeavors.
Your daughter is a fine young lady, the type of student who makes teaching an exciting and rewarding profession. Betsy is a credit to both you and herself and she should be a source of great pride for your whole family.

Sincerely,
William K. Sturley
Teacher, Mathematics Department

I was touched that he would praise me so and reach out in such an extraordinary way to my parents. The letter remains in my scrapbook, rarely looked at. I was surprised by it recently.

Boom-Boom Billy went off to Vietnam…I don’t know where. We got word that he was badly injured, a grenade exploded close to him, leaving him with shrapnel wounds in one hand and a leg, but scarring his psyche more profoundly.

During our senior year he came back to substitute teach. Patti and I visited him on our lunch hour. We eagerly sought him out. We found him in the hallway by the math classrooms, a hollowed-out man. He showed us his maimed hand. We only had to look at him to see the joy was gone from his eyes. We didn’t know about PTSD in those days, or what horrible things he had witnessed, though one only had to look at him, for it was written on his face. We teenagers tried to comfort our former teacher, but there was little we could do, beyond greeting him, listening to him, showing we cared and were happy to see him. His eyes remained expressionless. We saw first-hand the damage of war.

In World War II, we knew why we were fighting. In all subsequent aggressions, it has not been about our survival, or our personal rights. Now we hear saber rattling again on the Korean peninsula with nuclear arms in the mix and in the Mid-East with nothing but human misery and ethnic conflicts that don’t involve us. We need to keep our heads and learn to be humans, not war machines.

He prostrated himself before this divine sight, this river of steel issuing miraculously out of the ground.
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I lost my father, suddenly, more than 27 years ago. I miss him every day; his gentle spirit and home-spun wisdom.  At the time of his death I had a 4 year old and an 8 month old child. I realized there was so much I wanted to ask him, to know about him. He was the youngest of eight children, grew up in St. Louis, had a bipolar mother about whom he never spoke. I decided before everyone who knew anything about his upbringing was gone, I would write a family news letter and call his surviving siblings and cousins, and mine, and get family history and stories. First I wrote about my generation of cousins. Then I wrote about our grandparents’ generation. Next, my father’s siblings, the first four, then the next. I only wrote a newsletter every 6-9 months or so, so it took me several years before I got to writing about my father. When I finally wrote his story, I realized that it was his eulogy and I had completed the project.

The story that I share today I wrote in November, 1993, collected from observations from various cousins and my own. The names quoted are first cousins. You will see that I shift point of view in telling the story. That was deliberate as I am sometimes part of the story, sometimes just recounting what others say. Here is the story of my father: Conrad Kenneth Sarason.

The baby was born on November 23, 1913, four days after Grandpa Kahut Sarason died. Though named Conrad, Lizzie and Sam evidently decided to change it to Kenneth in memory of Sam’s father, but didn’t bother to change the birth certificate. Ken only discovered his real name when he entered the service and had to produce a birth certificate. Among his papers, Rick and I found the notarized pronouncement from oldest sister Pauline that she knew Conrad and Kenneth to be one and the same person.

When he was four years old, he fell through the plate glass display case in his father’s store and his nose was severed. It was Ike, then 14, who scooped him up and rushed him to the doctor to have it stitched back on. Dad always spoke fondly of his big brother and, after Ike’s death, wrote to Mimi about how much he had looked up to him. Reports are that he was a happy child and no trouble for Lizzie, who had troubles enough of her own. She started in and out of mental institutions when he was 8 and was permanently institutionalized when he was 12. He used to pray for her at night. I’m sure he didn’t understand why she couldn’t be with him and my mother says he wept in her arms when Lizzie died.

He graduated with a degree in business administration from Washington University in 1935 and made his way to Detroit to work for GM. In 1937 he was living in Flint, MI. His old friend Meyer Weiner tells the story of a hot day at Rosh Hashanah services. Several men came out to get some air and have a cigarette. One approached. “Anyone play golf?” Two responded and the three left for the links. The instigator was my father; Meyer and Bill Finsten were the others. They were soon sharing an apartment and became life-long friends, a friendship that Meyer has lovingly extended to me since Dad’s death. This story seems to be typical of my father: religious, but not devout, devoted more to friendship and golf than anything else.

Writes Marj: “Kenny was born with a sunny personality. Very good looking and irresistible in his Army Air Corps uniform. He came to live with us in Huntington Woods for a short period after the war because he had pneumonia. We had a maid at that time who used to work in a mental hospital and it seemed to have left a mark on her. During the long days he stayed in bed, she sat with him and fell in love with him. When he recovered and moved on to escorting more attractive women around town, she felt betrayed, became furious and left. I was a teenager at the time and happy to see her sullen face gone but not Kenny’s cheerful one.”

Jean’s memories are consistent: the handsome war hero, popular with the women. She remembers one particularly funny evening: “He and Sam Horwitz, my Aunt Jane’s intended, had a contest to see who could eat the most corn-on-the-cob. It was a hilarious dinner and if I remember correctly Kenny was the winner.” From Milli: “Ken was in the Air Force when I first remember him during the Second World War. He was the magical source of unheard of treats during those years – Juicy Fruit gum and Hershey chocolate bars.” Milli remembers that he was a gracious host when they visited him in Laguna Hills, a memory shared by all the cousins, for family meant everything to Ken.  She and Rachel each have a story asking Dad to say grace before a meal (both these cousins are Baptists). With tears streaming down his face, he said the blessing over bread in Hebrew. I have one such occurrence on video, at Rachel’s son John’s graduation from the Air Force Academy. Dad was thrilled to be the Sarason representative at the occasion. Upon witnessing me in tears at Erica Zimmerman’s bat mitzvah, Jean leaned over to me and told me that I had come by it naturally. Brothers Ike, Roy and Ken could all be easily moved to tears.

Ken enlisted in the Army Air Corps just before his 26th birthday. He had found a home. He loved the camaraderie and the responsibility. He was a navigator and then an instructor at a flight school at Edwards Air Force Base in Sacramento. It was then that he fell in love with California and vowed to return someday. He remained in close touch with his “buddies” and was still in touch with his commanding officer when he died. Col. John Egan and I are now pen-pals as well.

When Dad came back to Detroit, he decided it was time to marry. He was now 32 years old. Pauline introduced him to the younger sister of one of her friends and he married Cornelia Stein after a brief courtship. They were married on June 16, 1946. He had kept his promise to his father to marry a Jewish woman. His used car lot prospered enough that he was able to buy a Chrysler dealership with a partner. Rick came along on Feb. 12, 1948, and I came at long last on Dec. 10, 1952, finishing out the generation of first cousins. Dad worked long hours and golfed or bowled on Sundays. My memories of him from those years are formed mostly by viewing those precious old pictures and movies, for which he was famous.

Louise remembers: “Ken, the brother that Sara brought up, had a special place in our hearts. He was perhaps 18 when I was born. The dashing navigator in his Air Force khakis, who brought Sara opals from Australia; the young man looking for a job; the young husband grinning as he introduced his bride to Worcester and who got to sleep in my brand new twin beds which promptly collapsed when he sat on the edge to take his shoes off. I was so embarrassed about that, but he made it an adventure to laugh about as he and Dad put things to rights. He was friendly and kind when we met in Detroit, but it wasn’t until I was grown that he shared with me some of his personal problems and how he handled them. I think it was unusual for a man of his generation to discuss such things, but then, I considered him almost a contemporary and a friend. He delighted in playing host; was especially cordial to Mendy and me in California and he embraced and welcomed Arnold as my new husband. In a way he was a family link, because he was free enough to travel and visited frequently in Worcester and Baltimore. Oh yes, the movies and the pictures – we came to depend on him to be the family photographer and he always came through – at weddings ( especially mine) and family visits and special occasions. I’ve always regretted sticking my tongue out at him when I was younger. Truth be told, I wanted to have my picture taken and generally liked the idea of being in a picture, but was very self-conscious about how I looked and embarrassed about my feeling that I wanted to be in a picture.”

Bad business dealings and a union strike at Chrysler forced Dad to sell his dealership at a loss in 1967. He went to work for cousin Lester Morris selling Buicks, then to a competitor, but he had lost his appetite for the business world. Uncle Meyer died in the summer of 1970. Rick had already left for Israel and I was out of town, visiting maternal cousins. When I returned home, Dad took me to Aunt Anna’s house to pay my respects. The evening remains vivid for me 23 years later. It is the only time I ever remember being in the Prentis home and I was aware that Dad wanted his respected relatives to see his almost-grown daughter, about to leave for college. He was proud of me and I basked in that knowledge. I was admitted in to see Aunt Anna, who had taken to her bed with grief. She was supported by her four daughters, who were all so kind to me. I met Nelson that evening, a wonderful new cousin who was doing his graduate work at Brandeis, happy coincidence! Most of all, I remember the ride home, during which Dad confided to me that he was interviewing for a job at the Jewish Welfare Federation as their Director of Endowments. He was excited about the possibility of “doing good while making good” and was so happy to get the job. It was a satisfying way for him to finish his professional career, and that evening established an intimacy between the two of us that I always cherished. I came to rely on my father and learned that nothing was too intimate or painful for him to hear. He never disappointed me and was my support throughout the years. At one low point, he told me that his shoulders were broad enough for the both of us and I suspect that I was not alone in finding that he always had a sympathetic ear.

Ken and Connie went through a bitter divorce which was finalized in 1981 and resulted in Ken finally living full-time at his beloved Leisure World in Laguna Hills, CA. He was truly happy in his California idyll with many friends and lots of golf, bridge and poker. He missed his family and wished that they would have visited more often. He continued to date needy women, never quite understanding why they sought him out, or why he put up with them. He died of a heart attack on January 3, 1990. As Milli said, “He had unusual warmth and joy.”