Birthday Bakers

Going to birthday parties has always been great fun for kids.   When I was young I’d wear a pretty party dress and my mother would take me to the birthday kid’s house,  with me proudly carrying the wrapped gift.   Then we’d put on paper hats,  play games,  and eat cake and ice cream while the celebrant’s father took home movies as we waved shyly at the camera.

A generation later things were quite different.   The birthday parties I took my son to were usually themed and held in restaurants,  gyms,  or museums,  with entertainment supplied by hired clowns or magicians.   Pizza or 6-foot heroes were usually on the menu,  and the kids were completely unfazed by the professional videographer recording the event for posterity.

But for my son’s birthdays I always tried to come up with party ideas that had special meaning for him,  and one year I capitalized on his early love for cooking and baking.   (See Reading with Hattie, Baking with Julia)

He was 7 or 8 when I hired the Birthday Bakers,  two lovely young women who arrived at our apartment bringing everything that was needed for a dozen little kids to bake and decorate a cake,  even little chef aprons for them to wear and keep.

All I was asked to do was preheat the oven while the Birthday Bakers spread everything out on our dining room table,  and helped the kids break eggs,  measure flour and the other dry ingredients,  mix the batter,  and make the icing.

Then while the cake was in the oven,  the kids sat in a circle on our living room floor and our two Birthday Bakers read them Maurice Sendak’s wonderful book In the Night Kitchen.

And that year everyone agreed our birthday party really took the cake!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

 

Had someone drugged the soft drink they served me, at the offices of the mining company where my newfound friends needed to make a stop? Was I influenced by the sultry thirty-something woman who insisted that I receive my first lesson in appraising sapphires?
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The Puppy Farm

I’ve written before about my wonderful childhood puppy  (See Fluffy, or How I Got My Dog and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)  but sadly there is more to tell.

I’m sure today’s child rearing gurus would advise you to tell your kids the truth no matter how painful,  but I suspect my folks practiced the old school kind of parenting.

When I was 10 Fluffy was hit by a car and the really awful thing was I saw it happen.  I was coming home from school when she saw me from across the street and ran towards me.

I don’t know why Fluffy was off the leash that day,  or if somehow she had gotten out of the house alone.   I only remember the sound of screeching brakes on our usually quiet street,  my beloved dog lying motionless near the wheel of a car,  and my mother and my visiting uncle kneeling in the street trying to console me.

Eventually they led me to the house and told me the vet was taking Fluffy to a puppy farm in the country where she would get well.

I never saw Fluffy again and although we never got another dog,   we did have a succession of wonderful cats.  (See Missing Pussycats ,  Mr Bucco and the Ginger Cat,  Hotel Kittens,  and The Cat and the Forshpeiz)

Over the years I must have wondered if there was something a little fishy about the puppy farm story and whether city dogs who get hit by cars really do go to the country for rehab.   But I never questioned my parents because they were grownups and I knew grownups never tell lies.

And now my parents are gone and my uncle is gone,  and surely the vet is gone too,  and so there’s no one left who can tell me what really happened on a shady Bronx street one afternoon over half-a-century ago.

And so I choose to believe that Fluffy did go to that puppy farm in the country,  and for all I know she’s there still.   For in my mind’s eye I still see her running through the fields  –  the Elysian puppy fields.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Book Club

I took this photo in front of my friend Helen’s beautiful waterfront home on City Island in the Bronx.   Pictured are the wonderful women in my  Uptown Book Club,  in the back row – Reina,  Karlan,  Judy,  Marlene,  and Helen;  and in the front row – Renee and Paula.

It seems I have a propensity for joining book clubs,  but if I have to name a favorite,  this is the one.  (See Book Slut, or Why I’m in Six Book Clubs)

When we started meeting about 20 years ago our assigned leader was Renee,  a New York Public outreach librarian who led monthly book discussions for a group of teachers and school librarians in the Bronx school district where I was working.  When that outreach initiative ended,   Renee agreed to continue meeting with us informally,  and our group meets to this day.

I’ve written more about this book group,  my  friendship with Renee,  and sadly her untimely death.  (See Comfort Food for Renee.)

Now we take turns leading our book club meetings,  but still feel Renee’s presence,  joking about what insightful question she would ask to open the discussion,  and what else she would say about the book.

Several of the other women in the club have also become good friends,  while others I see only at our monthly meetings,  and yet after years together l feel very close to them all.

If you’re already in a book club you know the special bond that can exist among passionate readers.  And if you’re not,  but you like reading good books and making new friends,  what are you waiting for?

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Sunburn

One sunny Friday afternoon we went to our local coffeeshop for a quick bite and then to the garage to get the car for our weekend drive to Connecticut.

My fair-skinned husband is prone to sunburn so after putting the convertible top down,  he rubbed some sunscreen on his face.  Then as he drove I was scrutinizing his profile,  as wives in passenger seats are apt to do,  when I noticed a drop of something white on his shirt collar.   At the coffeeshop he’d complained there was too much mayo in his egg salad,  and so I assumed a bit of that egg salad had somehow gotten on his shirt.

There were no handy tissues so I swiped at the white bit with my finger and then put my finger in my mouth.  Of course it wasn’t egg salad but a stray bit of sunscreen and it was  bitter!

I grabbed the Coppertone tube and there – in all caps – was the dire warning – FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY,  DO NOT INGEST.

”I’ve just poisoned myself,  you have to get me to a hospital quick so they can pump my stomach!”   I cried in mounting panic.

”Calm down and call Coppertone.”  said my level-headed husband.    And sure enough beneath the dire warning on the tube was a toll-free customer service number,   and so I took out my cell phone and called.

The Coppertone rep listened to my sad tale and asked some pertinent questions –  my age and relative health,  what meds I take,  and how much suntan lotion I had ingested.

”Not to worry.”  he said after hearing it was just a dab.

I thanked him and somewhat embarrassed I added,  “I’m sorry if this sounded a little bit crazy,  but believe me I thought it was egg salad!”  

“Oh,  I believe you lady.”  he said,  “You can’t make this stuff up!”

I didn’t tell that Coppertone guy,  but in my head I had already written this story.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

A Thousand Little Touches

My father – six years older than my mother – died in his early 80s.   (See My Dad and the Word Processor,   Saying Farewell to a Special Guy,  Six Pack, My Father, the Outsider Artist,  GP and Turkey and Trimmings with Flu Shot)

My mother,  who it seemed had never been sick a day in her life,  developed a heart condition after he died and survived him by less than three years.  (See My Game Mother,  Elbow Grease,  Still Life and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)

In fact it seemed she’d been prescient about her own mortality.   After his death she became depressed and when we reminded her how much she still had to live for – her two daughters and two grandsons –  she said she’d try to stick around,  but just for a few more years.

Then talking about my dad she said what she missed most were those thousand little touches – the warm sweater or mislaid pair of eyeglasses,  or handful of grapes or hot cup of tea,  all lovingly brought to the side of the one who had asked.

As a child I surely took my folks for granted and probably didn’t think much about their marriage.  It wasn’t until I entered the fray myself in that sometimes bloody battle of the sexes,  that I realized what a good and enviable marriage they had.

They certainly had different personas – almost diametrically opposed I would say.   My dad was unpretentious,  peace-loving,  and rather than socializing was happiest at home playing the piano or making art – his two great hobbies.   My mom was quite the opposite – opinionated and always ready for a debate,  gregarious,  and full of energy and wanderlust.

Yet as different as they seemed,   and like all couples they sometimes disagreed and sometimes argued fiercely,  they were wonderful to see together –  demonstrative,  often holding hands,  and undoubtedly very much in love. (See Around the World in 80 Days)

Although I don’t profess to know the secret of their happy marriage,  I’m sure if there’s a Great Beyond they’re out there together,  still hand-in-hand!

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

I am so grateful to Retrospect for giving me the avenue and the structure to bring these stories to life.
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Obit

I was at work when my mother called to tell me Ruth M had died.   My mom was at the age when she read the obituaries every day looking for the names of friends and acquaintances,  and had seen Ruth’s name in the morning paper.

Ruth was my ex-mother-in-law and I hadn’t seen her since Alan and I divorced more than a dozen years earlier,  and I had no desire to go to her funeral.   But nevertheless I asked my mother where and when the service would be.

She told me it was that morning and where,  and when we hung up I called the funeral home.

“I knew the deceased,”  I told the receptionist,  “but I can’t make the service.  When it’s over please give her son Alan my name and number,  and ask him to call me.”

An hour later my phone rang.   Alan apparently had gotten my message.

“Hi Pussycat,  want me to pick up a quart of milk on my way home?”. he asked.

Alan was living in California and had just flown to New York for the funeral.   He said that shiva for his mother would be that night at his brother Zach’s Manhattan apartment and he hoped I’d come.  I told my husband I was meeting an old friend,  and I went.

Zach greeted me warmly at the door,  and then I saw Alan walking towards us.  We embraced and found a private spot to talk.  We spoke about our life together,  our lives since,  and how good it was to see each other again.   But after a long,  open-hearted  conversation I knew we’d never have resolved our differences,  and divorce had been the right decision.

Then heading home from Zach’s apartment an hour or so later it hit me – despite our long talk at her shiva,  neither Alan nor I had even mentioned his mother.

And although one should never speak ill of the dead,  the truth is –  as both Alan and I knew –  Ruth had been one battle axe of a mother-in-law!

(For more about me and Alan see Shuffling Off to Buffalo,  My Snowy Year in Buffalo,  Flowers on the Windshield, and  Both Sides Now.)

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

Watching Lacrosse with Dick

I’ve written before about my friends Celia and Dick.  (See Moving Day Blues and Carving Mr Pumpkin)

Dick is no longer with us but he’s impossible to forget.  He was a wonderful guy – bright, warm, witty,  cultured,  well-read and world-travelled,  a gourmand and a bon vivant,  an historian and writer,  and founder of a prestigious educational publishing company that he ran in Princeton for decades.

I knew that Celia and Dick had a wonderful marriage – their biggest fight,  she once told me,  was over a restaurant tip.  She thought Dick had left too much but he refused to edit it.  And indeed Dick could be terribly stubborn as I learned during my “decluttering Dick”  project.

After retiring from the library world,  I started a home organizing business and offered my services gratis to friends.  Celia called and asked me to come help Dick organize his huge,  disorganized collection of travel memorabilia.

At their house I labelled folders with the names of cities and countries where he and Celia had been.  Then I sat opposite Dick with a waste basket between us,  and instructed him to weed his enormous pile of stuff and we’d file what he wanted to keep in the designated folders.   But with every item he picked up,  he regaled me with stories about that particular trip,  even remembering all the delicious meals they’d eaten.

And of all the itineraries,  hotel bills,  city maps,  travel guides,  brochures,  plane and train tickets,  pictures and postcards,  and wine lists and menus he’d saved,  Dick insisted on keeping almost everything to my great frustration!

And Dick was also a big opera buff and a sports fan.  One  summer my husband Danny and I went to Cooperstown with Celia and Dick for the Glimmerglass Opera Festival and stayed at the elegant Otesaga Hotel overlooking beautiful Otesage Lake.

We planned to see two operas and also spend an afternoon at the Baseball Hall of Fame,  but Dick agreed to the latter rather begrudgingly.   As a Hopkins man,  he reminded us,  his sport was lacrosse.  Yet once we were there,  Dick was like a little kid discovering baseball for the first time.   He looked at every exhibit,  read every wall poster,  and posed  with Phil Rizzuto’s Holy Cow,  and with Danny beside the big scoreboard of team standings,  Dick pointing of course to the Baltimore Orioles.

But lacrosse was really his passion.  One spring weekend we were staying in Princeton with Celia and Dick and were at a Princeton – Hopkins lacrosse match when it started to rain.   Some die-hard fans opened their umbrellas,  but most of the folks in the stands started to leave.   Danny and I rose to go but I saw that Dick was unfolding some serious-looking rain gear.

”We’ll have to leave him here,”. Celia said,  “he won’t budge until the game is over.”

So the three of us started off,  and I turned back to tell Dick we’d see him later at the house.  Through what was by then a real downpour Dick waved a hand back at me,  but his eyes never left the field.

Go Hopkins,  and rest in peace Dick,  you sweet, unforgettable friend.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

We are yet mired in anxiety.
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