My parents barely knew one another when they married. They were coming out of WWII, both living with older sisters who were friends with each other, both aged 32. My father had dated a lot of women, but promised his now-deceased father that he would marry a Jewish woman.

My mother, who had low self-esteem, thought she would never marry, so was rather surprised when this handsome man paid attention to her. They met in February and married on June 16, 1946 in a small ceremony in my mother’s native Toledo, Ohio, attended only by their immediate family (with so many brothers and sisters, the gathering was not tiny). The lived in an apartment, then a small house in Detroit. My dad, with a partner, had a used car lot, which became a DeSoto dealership, and eventually, a Chrysler dealership.

My brother, Rick, came along in February, 1948 and I, in December, 1952 (they had given up trying; I was their surprise). Dad worked hard in retail – 6 days and 2 nights a week. Mom had lots of help around that small house – a full-time maid who cleaned and cooked. She did volunteer work for Jewish ladies’ organizations but was always home when we came home for lunch or after school. Things seemed to run smoothly during our days in Detroit. I was told by a cousin that she seemed full of life and fun in those days.

It all fell apart when we sold that small house, built a new one in Huntington Woods (just 2 1/2 miles outside the Detroit city limits) and Rick and I went to school in Royal Oak, in 1963. We had difficulty making new friends, the move was very difficult on our mother, who had a “nervous breakdown” and took to her bed for 6 weeks. Her sister, Stella, from Cleveland, came in to care for us. She and I fought over what I could wear (I was trying to wear what the other girls wore, but she thought I should dress in practical winter clothing and accused me of being spoiled). The tension around the house was palpable.

Slowly, Mother came back to living, but was never the same. She saw a psychiatrist she hated, and went only because the family forced her to. She resumed some of her household chores. Her family (to whom she would listen; my father didn’t know what to do) also didn’t know how to help. Her uncle, an internist, told her she HAD to see this psychiatrist, so she did, but an unwilling patient will not make progress.

We no longer had as much help. She now had to cook, even though we still had help with the cleaning and laundry. Rick went off to Brandeis in 1965 and I was alone with this erratic, needy woman.

In 1967, Dad suffered a severe business loss. His partner had wanted out of the partnership two years earlier; my dad agreed to buy him out over a long period. In 1967, the UAW went out on strike, Dad had no inventory to sell and wound up selling his dealership back to Chrysler at a loss, though he continued to pay off his partner until I was part-way through Brandeis (I believe he was finished with that obligation in 1972). He went to work for a cousin who owned a Buick dealership. I can’t imagine what that did to his pride or his psyche. We never talked about it, though I’m sure he was grateful for the job and income.

The cleaning lady now came one day a week and all other perks that came with owning one’s own business were gone. I think my mother found it humiliating and, rather than being supportive, would mock her husband. She had inherited some money from her father’s estate and now had to use that to pay the (small) mortgage on our home, unlike her sisters (one married to a lawyer, one to a doctor) who used their shares any way they chose. She had vicious fights with Dad in front of me. I couldn’t wait to leave for a university as far away as I could get.

Dad had been stationed in California during WWII, loved being there and always wanted to return, but Mother would have none of it. She didn’t want to be far from her family. Dad was aware of a retirement development (55 and older) being built in Laguna Hills called Leisure World. It was built in stages, had several golf courses and many other amenities, making it attractive for active older folks and my father was eager to buy a unit for their retirement, but one had to be there in person when units went on the market. Mom was having none of it. Dad had a niece stand in and got the right to buy one when it came up for sale. At this point, the Huntington Woods house was paid off. He took out a mortgage on that home to buy the Laguna Hills condo; a two-bedroom, two bath unit with a garage. He told Mother to hire a decorator and let her do whatever she wanted with it. It was his dream, but he wanted her to participate. She had a cousin who lived nearby and he had cousins and retired Temple friends in the complex. He thought it would be an ideal place to retire.

Mother gave him an amazing amount of crap at every step of the way, yet he persisted. It was finally built and decorated and they went out and spent a few weeks – and she enjoyed it! The weather was sublime, they had an excellent social life. There was a shuttle bus that ran to the grocery store, or into town for functions. But of course, Dan rented a car that trip, so he drove her around to see her cousin or friends. He was very social and entertained at the home. He’d barbecue and invite all sorts of people over. After all the grief she’d given him, she enjoyed being there. They went there several times over the next few years.

He approached retirement. He doubted he could spend 100% of his time with her. She was making more scenes in public; he couldn’t tolerate those, or all her belittling, in private and public. He made a deal with her. He told her to go to California for a month without him, while he continued to work. He thought, if only he could have a little peace, he could stand the rest. But she was fearful. She didn’t think she could survive without him. Her behavior became more erratic. In the winter of 1978, he finally had her committed to a mental hospital for a two week evaluation. She was furious. People SMOKED in there, and besides – she wasn’t CRAZY! He asked for help from her family. They said they didn’t know why he hadn’t done that long ago. He was sort of stunned. The state of mental health in the late 1970s wasn’t what it is today (nor were there anti-depressants like today) and there was still a huge stigma attached. Her siblings agreed that she needed help, but no one reached out to her, nor helped my father deal with the situation. She came home, having not been helped and even angrier.

He filed for divorce late in 1980. She didn’t believe it. He was told by his lawyer that he didn’t need to move out, so just stayed in the other bedroom, as he had for years. She found this confusing.

She contested the divorce. For a year. She decided she wanted that condo in California. The one she had given him so much crap about buying. He brought in an old family friend who wanted to buy the Huntington Woods house for her daughter and made a good offer. Mother screamed the woman out of the house. The friend never returned.

A real estate broker befriended my mother. All I heard about was “Carol”; “Carol told me this”, “Carol told me that”. My mother never understood that she was being used by this woman. My father moved in with his widowed sister-in-law.  My mother continued to fight the divorce. They both rang up serious legal fees.

Some years earlier, my father had set up a small irrevocable trust for my brother and me (neither of us knew about it). My mother now decided that she wanted the money in that trust too – money set aside for HER CHILDREN! This also infuriated my father. I have the divorce decree. My father annotated it for my brother and me; she wound up with considerably more money than he did, but he would never relinquish the California condo. Also, she had no claim to that small trust. He told her if she wanted it, she could pay his lawyer to break the trust. She persisted, my dad had to break the trust and pay her that money. To his dying day, he never paid the lawyer for that work. It was the first claim again his estate, which my brother paid.

After a year, and countless legal fees, my mother finally agreed to give up the claim on the California condo and the divorce decree was granted, ending a 35 year marriage. My dad moved to his beloved condo in California. He lived there a bit less than 9 years, dying at the age of 76 on January 3, 1990.

Meanwhile, the market in Detroit had turned and Mom’s “friend” Carol sold the Huntington Woods house for far less than the offer my mother had chased away a year earlier. My mother never heard from Carol again. Mom moved to a large apartment in a complex near her sister Ann, where she lived until the age of 82, when I moved her to a life care community 20 minutes from me in suburban Boston. She died 3 days before her 97th birthday in 2010, leaving a sizable estate that was split between my brother and me.

Rick’s wedding, 2/12/83

My parents saw each other once more: at Rick’s wedding. We spoke with each of them before the event, asking them to behave, which they did. We breathed a sigh of relief. Her one request for that day was that she and our father have one dance together, which they did. They always danced so well together.

Something one must remember about me is the environment in which I was raised. My mother had serious mental health issues. My father didn’t want to upset her and instructed us to do the same. We all took a lot from her and that became the norm, until I blew up and fought back, screaming at her, closing my door to keep her out, never confiding in her. But that was the exception, not the rule. I was usually docile and obedient, never the trouble maker. I saw my father tolerate her verbal abuse until my brother and I were safely grown when he finally could no longer stand it and he divorced her. But that’s another story. So the peace-keeper is embedded in my core personality.

As I ventured out in the world, it was difficult for me to stand up for myself. It was not learned behavior. I married immediately after college graduation and became a dutiful spouse.

The first instance of showing backbone was during that summer of 1974, immediately after marriage. I applied for teaching positions in suburban Boston. I easily got certified in Secondary Speech (having been a Theatre Major). Getting the all-important English certification was more difficult. Though I took lots of literature courses, most of them were referenced on my transcript as Theatre courses (Shakespeare, for instance, could be either, but I registered it as a ThA course, to satisfy requirements for my major). I actually only had one straight English course on my transcript. I wrote a pointed letter to the Massachusetts Board of Education, noting ALL the literature I had read – the classics in my Humanities course, SO much Theatre literature from the earliest Greeks through Ibsen, and so on. I quickly received that all-important English certification as well, though I never got a teaching job. As noted in earlier stories, I went to work in the tech sector and never looked back. Still, I stood up for myself.

When I interviewed at ASI in March of 1978, I very much wanted that sales position. I had no experience, but made the pitch that my acting credentials made me a good public speaker, being a stage manager showed I had great follow-through and besides, I could laugh and cry on cue and would use that to my advantage too. The VP of Sales liked that argument and I got the job offer the next day. Those who know me as a professional cannot believe that I am not always that determined in all aspects of my life. I was fearless as a sales rep. But not so in my home life – a throwback to deferring to my mother to keep the peace in the household.

I suppose leaving by myself for Chicago to take that sales job was a big leap. I told Dan that I was going to take that job. He could come with me, or not. He chose not. We commuted for 16 months. We saw each other every 2 or 3 weekends. Each visit was like a honeymoon and we had a wonderful time. I had never lived on my own. I kept within a tight budget. But I also had a very close friend nearby. She and her family became my family. I saw her every week and her mother took care of me in ways that my own mother never did. While I worked very hard, I also felt nurtured and protected.

Another famous sales moment (that I wrote about for a previous prompt) was getting a contract two weeks before my due date for David in the summer of 1985 at Combustion Engineering in Stamford, CT. My manager (who had come through a difficult divorce, so became skeptical of women) decided to go on a call with me just before the 4th of July holiday. This was our first time out together, though I had worked for the company for nine months. I did all the talking, it went well, he was impressed. My main contact called the next week to say it was a done deal. This would be a big contract. But he called the following week to say the Senior VP (who hadn’t bothered to show up when I made the presentation) wanted to see the product before signing – would I come and present one last time? I was now within two weeks of my due date and HUGE (see the Featured photo – that is the dress I wore to the appointment). My contact assured me this was merely a courtesy call. The contract WOULD be signed. I told him my water could break at any time and my husband would not be please if it broke on the leather seat of the BMW. We understood one another.

Of course, the A/C broke in the BMW the night before, right after our Lamaze class, so I was a mess when I finally arrived after my 2 1/2 hour drive. I carried 45 pounds of computer equipment and needed help getting it out of my car. I went to wash up in the ladies room before setting up. The presentation went well. The VP was about to sign until he asked what version of the operating system were we running, and what version were they running. We were one version ahead of them and we didn’t know the implications. He got up and left. I was FRANTIC! I called my office, spoke with the head of development who was willing to write into the contract that we would guarantee to make our product run on their version of the operating system. I turned to my contact to see if he was satisfied, which he was. Now he had to get the VP back for the signature. I said, “I hope you are prepared to deliver this baby on this conference room table because I am not leaving without that signed contract”. Great closing line, but one doesn’t get many opportunities to use it. I did sit there for hours, but I came away with the signed contract. Tenacious.

A few months ago I wrote about a terrible car accident I had on the Mass Pike in my BMW 540i. I was injured and as I was being strapped onto the gurney by the EMT, I noticed the State Trooper putting a ticket in my tote bag. He told me that “someone had to pay for the guard rails” (if I was at fault, then my insurance paid; if not at fault, the state paid). I fought that ticket from the magistrate (who ruled against me) to the judge, who ruled in my favor. I really stood up for myself that time.

Just before I left for Martha’s Vineyard for the season, I had a run-in with my gym.

This was absolutely NOT true. I immediately sent an email to the gym manager and head of group fitness with the time of my arrival and details about running into the instructor coming into the locker room, how many mats were set up when I got into the studio, who I spoke with before class and giving a fond farewell to the instructor, who I really like, as this would be my last Barre class before leaving for the Vineyard five days later. Karen, head of group fitness, answered the email a few moments later, apologized and said my account would be corrected. In my 10 years of membership at Equinox, this has never happened to me.

So when it matters, I do stand up for myself. But normally, I go along to get along. I don’t make waves.

Neither of my children has a landline, nor network TV. One doesn’t own a TV. If he wants to watch a streaming service, he has a projection system hooked up to his computer. He projects the image on a wall or screen opposite the projector. My other child uses her TV for gaming, watching movies and such. The notion of network TV is far-fetched, antiquated for them.

We have lived in our home for 36+ years, so of course we had phones in most rooms when we moved in. There was no alternative at the time. In fact, we installed a phone system, which ties into the doorbells. It rings through the phone. This was very modern at the time, but now would require us to tear out the whole system (embedded in our walls, so a major renovation). We even had two lines – one for outgoing FAXs and also used for business calls. We dropped that line long ago.

Our cable provider is Comcast and we have their “triple play” service, that is- we get our phone, internet and cable service from them. My husband has looked at dropping one of the services, but it is MORE expensive! We also live in a rather large stone house and there is virtually no cell service in certain parts of the basement (which is finished and has a large TV in one room), so relying just on our cellphones isn’t practical. Also, we have been in the house so long, we still have certain accounts that are tied to the landline phone number.

My husband is an early adopter of technology and we bought TiVos (for three of the TVs in the house, and they are linked, so we can watch shows recorded on one from other TVs) years ago, and have upgraded them as they wore out. TiVo is the brand name of a type of DVR. All our TV is run through the TiVo, which runs through the Internet. When the Internet goes down (which seems to happen frequently these days) we lose the program guide for the TiVo, which programs about 10 days ahead, so we can set up shows to record that far in advance. We set up a “season pass” for series that we want to record over and over again, like “Jeopardy”, which we watch every week night, whether we are home or not. We can go back any time and catch up.

We can record on multiple channels at a time, have access to various streaming services, etc, though we do have to pay for each, so we do NOT have Paramount+, for example. We subscribed to Disney+ for a while, but found we weren’t watching much on it, so unsubscribed. We do not have Peacock, so cannot see the NBC shows after they initially air. But we usually record what we wish to see. We did invest in an Apple TV+ device a few years ago. I HATE the remote control and find it very difficult to control, but do enjoy many of the shows on that service.

So we are somewhere between modern and not, streaming more and more shows, but not giving up on that landline (though I never answer it these days). The only person who still uses the landline is our Martha’s Vineyard caretaker, who still doesn’t call on our cellphones. I know if someone calls on the landline, they don’t know us and I won’t answer.

Still, we won’t cut the cord.

“You can’t understand someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.” — American saying, author unknown

Part of aging is the physical breakdown of our bodies. I have tried to slow down the inevitable by working with a physical therapist weekly to strengthen my aching back and core (such as it is). Ironically, it was doing a new exercise (likely incorrectly) that left me with strained groin muscles and damage to the joint between my left and right pelvic bones that caused tremendous pain when I tried to initiate walking. After a visit to the pain doctor, an x-ray, and MRI, my doctor recommended lots of rest, pain management (translation, lots of pills), and using a walker. Finding a walker to borrow was easy. Most of my friends have one, as many people in my age group have had knee and/or hip replacements, broken bones from falls, or just need one to navigate the world.

In Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch tells Scout, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.”  The walker was a real eye-opener. I was shocked to discover how hard it was to navigate my condo, let alone the outside world.

My condo itself is structurally fine. An elevator building. One floor living. Doors wide enough to accommodate a walker or wheelchair. A shower with a grab bar. So why couldn’t I get around easily? We had arranged our furniture based on aesthetics alone, not worrying if visitors, several of whom use wheelchairs, walkers, or canes, had enough space to move from one part of our home to another.

Once we moved things to clear paths wide enough room to maneuver, I made another shocking discovery. Our living room is basically open concept, but I realized I could only sit in one spot on the sofa. I couldn’t navigate the coffee table. Filled with shame about how insensitive our furniture arrangement was to our aging friends, several with with physical disabilities, we started to rethink how we could make our home truly accessible.

My first venture outside with the walker was going with my husband to the Civic Center to get a handicapped placard for the car. Armed with my doctor’s form, we found the handicapped entrance, a ramp leading into the basement. It is an old building, and all other entrances involved many stairs. Once in, I caught my walker on a series of mats placed down to catch the snow/rain. When we put down mats like these at the handicap-accessible preschool I directed, we used duct tape to hold them in place and replaced them when they started to curl. Not so at the Civic Center, where they were a huge trip hazard.

When I explained what we needed to the man stationed down a long hallway at the information desk, he pointed to the staircase to the second floor and informed us we needed to go to the City Clerk or City Collector. I guess he didn’t look up at me to see the walker. Luckily, we were near the one small elevator in the building. The City Clerk sent us across the hall to the City Collector. There was a line of people waiting, but no one offered to let me go ahead of them or even to sit on a chair. When I finally reached the head of the line, the Collector told me, “We don’t do that here,” and gave me some extension numbers for other departments I could call from the house phone down the hall. Of course, no one answered. Luckily for me, the woman at the closest desk, whose job was to issue building permits, redirected me to the City Clerk and advised me to make him read my paperwork and ask for a placard, not a sticker. Finally, we were on our way.

We thought we could go into Walgreens on our way home for one item, but the only handicapped spot was already taken so I waited in the car. Just another time I was left out. At a different Walgreens the next day, we snagged a handicapped space for our COVID boosters. When we finally emerged, here’s what we found:

Yes, someone had parked in the zone next to handicapped spots that supposedly affords someone who is disabled enough room to enter their car. Luckily, I was not alone and my husband could back the car out so I could get in.

I have also discovered that many “accessible” buildings do not have automatic door openers, or if they do, it’s only on the outer door. A trip to the audiologist’s office on the first floor of a newish building is a perfect example. Getting into the office was doable as the outer door had a button for handicapped access and the inner door pushed inward. Exiting was another matter. I could not pull the office door inward and was lucky a man in the waiting room saw my plight and helped me.

I have a friend with MS who has described the many times an Uber driver saw she was an older woman in a wheel chair and just kept going. Before she was using the wheel chair, when she came to our old house with her walker, she had to enter though the backyard alley and have people assist her up several stairs to enter the house. I had a small, first-floor powder room, which must have been challenging for her to use. I also had a few steps to go from the front hall to the rest of the first floor. Of course, all of the bedrooms and bathrooms were up a full flight of stairs. One of the reasons we moved was contemplating a future in which aging made it harder to manage all of those stairs. I don’t know how I would have handled this injury if we hadn’t moved, and I am racked with guilt over not seeing how hard it was for my friend to come over as her illness progressed.

As I wrap this up with my hands cramping from arthritis, I needs to share a final thought. No matter how empathic you think you are to others who are aging and/or have disabilities, it takes actually putting yourself in the same position as someone who has a handicapping condition to understand fully how challenging life can be. For those of us lucky enough to be temporarily restricted or not suffering from a permanent disability, incidents like mine are a preview of coming attractions.

“I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.” ― Walt Whitman

Good Neighbors – for David K 

Writing once about the passage of time, I urged you to seize the day.   (See Time and the Taxi Man)

I thought of those words recently at the funeral of our neighbor David K who had died suddenly the week before.  For decades my husband Danny and I shared the same East End Avenue address with David in a building that was small by Manhattan standards with only 16 floors and less than 200 apartments.   (See  (The Lion, The Witch, and) The Wardrobe ,  Moving Day Blues , A Sign on the Doorpost ,  Kente Cloth and The Elevator)

A happy consequence of living in a smaller building is that we’ve come to know a great many of our neighbors,  some of whom have become close friends.   We and David however,  had been relative strangers who nodded at each other in the elevator or in the lobby.

But hearing of his death we decided to go to the funeral.  There we learned much about David from friends and family who eulogized him.

He had been a physician as we knew,   but we learned he’d also been an internationally known medical researcher and teacher enormously respected by fellow scientists around the world.  Several came from abroad for the funeral and many others sent moving tributes.

David’s niece and nephew spoke of their uncle as the glue that held the family together,  and friends spoke about the memorable meals he cooked and dinner parties he hosted, trips they made together,  his keen intellect and wit,  and his love of art and music.

Leaving the funeral home,  Danny and i remembered the last time each of us had seen David.  I met him in the lobby one morning about a week earlier and we had stopped to chat.  By chance the conversation turned to politics,  our travel plans,  and movies we’d seen,  and as we parted I told him I had enjoyed our talk.  “Let’s not be strangers,”  I said,  “let’s make that dinner date!” 

David had been on his way to get his car,  and by chance in the garage he met Danny.  David said he’d just seen me in the lobby and we’d promised to make a dinner date.  “Yes, let’s do it soon.”  Danny told him as they parted.

But David died a week later and we never had that dinner date.  And regrettably,  we lost the chance for three strangers to become three friends.

RIP David.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

This was the command from my mother when I was in elementary school. The assignment in class was to speak about our family background. The kids awkwardly told stories about the origins of their grandparents in Ohio or somewhere in California, and then moved to their home in North Hollywood. Their stories were antiseptic, hagiographic, and very American. I knew nothing about my ancestry nor about the lives of my parents. Obeying her command, I wrote a summary of the Kagans in the terms of Laura Engels Wilder.

Her prohibition affected me and my brother, Bob. His adherence to her instruction led him to never divulge the life of his parents. When I visited him for at the hospital he worked at, his staff asked me if my brother had a family: “He never tells us about his personal life.”  I told them to ask him themselves.

In short, both my brother and I were estranged from any sense of family values.

Only after my mother died leaving her autobiography did I learn of her history. Until then, Mother’s Day memories lay in the folds of an envelope addressed to Rose, my mother, and not much else.

After she died at the age of ninety-six, I read her 100-page handwritten autobiography. She recounted her childhood in the Russian held Ukraine which was threatened by pogroms, Germans, and Cossacks.

The Russians protected Jews from these enemies and the Communists offered them a better life than they had under the Czar.

Rose on the right, with husband Irving on the far left at the University of Judaism

I remember watching newsreels in our living room gloriously revealing Russian bombers taking off to targets in Germany. Only by reading her memoirs did I learn she was a communist.

A brilliant student, her curtailed her education, sent her off as a secretary. Ever since, she had felt squelched from a more creative life.

Rose did not want to marry or have children. After she married my father in Los Angles, she traveled back to Boston to make the announcement in the newspaper. And the picture was of her and her girlfriend.

During the anti-communist rage in America, my mother became frightened to reveal her background. She passed as an articulate woman who did not engage in Jewish activities or political action.

She wanted Bob and me to be doctors. He followed through. To her dismay I became a professor in Chinese studies. When I was awarded tenure with the title of full professor, she encouraged me to apply for medical school. Rose warned me to avoid using my title of Dr. because it would be confusing for the real thing.

Rose wrote in detail about her struggles with macular degeneration, financial losses from bad investment, loss of friends, and years in therapy. She did have some splendid experiences founding a Jewish theater in Fairfax, receiving recognition from the University of Judaism, traveling to Egypt, and working for the liberal Jewish Community Relations Center.

In her last 6 years, she had to move. Bob and Mickey, her stepson, though exceptionally rich with Bob living in a California mansion with a swimming pool, and with Mickey living in a European style villa in Hollywood refused to take care of her after she was twice robbed. My wife, Anna and I invited her to live in St. Paul.

She was glad to be safe in St. Paul but disliked Minnesotans, especially Jews. She often complained that she wishes she could still live with her Jewish friends in California.

Soon, her brain began to deteriorate–believing her nurses were stealing her toothpaste. Most revealing, she witnessed Cyrillic (Russian) writing on the walls. Rose died in her sleep.

I now have her urn in my study. I look at it often. I express my awe for her life’s encounters. I share with her my own history.

My Mother’s Day is not on a day or in a card.

Rose is with me in my study.

Breakfast in Bed

Many years ago we spent a spring weekend with friends at their beach house a few hours from the city.

That Sunday was Mother’s Day and our young son and our hosts’ two young kids had planned a lovely surprise.  Early that morning our bedroom door burst open and the three kids came in, our son balancing a large breakfast tray.

“Happy Mother’s Day!”,  the trio chanted as they approached our bed.

”How lovely!  Thank you!!”  I exclaimed.

But the words were hardly out of my mouth when to the horror of my son and his friends the too-heavy tray he carried toppled, and a sticky mess of juice, tea, toast, and  jam somersaulted onto the sheets.

And as is the wont of us mothers, I quickly turned from a feted celebrant to a consoler of children,  a drier of tears,  and a cleaner of spills.

And despite that minor mishap it was a lovely – and quite memorable –  Mother’s Day!

– Dana Susan Lehrman