As I drove home, I noticed all the lights blurred with huge halos, and, although I knew where I was, I couldn't read the freeway signs ...
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At the very first event of the reunion—a meetup for those of us who had begun participating in a class list-serve to help us get reacquainted before we met in person--I met the girl.
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My dad was the youngest of eight children, my mother the youngest of four. They were 39 years old when they had me. I have first cousins whose children are older than me. There is a huge offset in the ages of the generations in my family, so the notion of “generations” is somewhat tricky. My father was very friendly with his nieces and nephews. Though I was much younger, I became so too, as I grew into adulthood.

I remember the phrase “don’t trust anyone over the age of 30”, but so many of my relatives fit that description and they were all great friends and wise people, so it just didn’t work for me. I enjoyed being with older people and never felt out of place with them. I looked to many for comfort and counsel.

Feeling at ease with my elders helped me when I got into sales, as so many of my clients were also considerably older. I learned to discuss things that were of interest to them (politics and religion were always off-limits, even in the late ’70s and early ’80s; just bad business).

I made a point of befriending my children’s friends too (certainly their parents, but I also liked their children). Vicki has been out of state a long time and we are now out of touch with any of her friends, but David stays close to a group of his high school friends and I follow many of them on social media. They are a great bunch of people, engaged and involved. I love to hear what they are up to as they’ve grown into adulthood. We were thrilled that one showed up at Columbia for his thesis defensive eight years ago.

We were all invited when his friend Abby was married a few years ago in Cambridge. It was also a great chance for Anna to visit her American relatives (her mother is American-born).

David’s senior year in high school, he held a marathon “Lord of the Rings” viewing party – watching the entire trilogy. I brought in pizza for the group, but also got to sit and watch with them. Their school was in Boston’s Back Bay. Everyone came in by public transportation and went out together on Friday nights, but often I’d receive a call late on Friday. He was someplace where the train had stopped running and could I come pick him up? And maybe drop a friend off on the way home? So of course I became friendly with everyone. Abby’s birthday is August 1 and a group of them wound up staying with us on the Vineyard one year, celebrating her birthday that weekend. They are great kids. We like to hear from and about them.

Aside from acknowledging that we know little about current technology and we are dinosaurs in that realm, we find little gap between the generations.

On a recent trip to London, we discussed texting abbreviations with David. He said he’d learned some new ones from his British friends like ending a text with “CBA”, which means “can’t be arsed”, as in: “can’t be bothered to get up off my arse to join you”. That one tickled all of us. He used it in context for us: “Hey, want to go for a jog this weekend?” “Eh, seems like a lot of work. CBA, mate.” But David went on to explain that “mate” would be “m8”. So we learned new lingo and no generation gap here! LOL!

 

My eyes were dark brown, but the Hollywood ideal was a blue-eyed blond. Thus, I pondered what I could do to make myself more attractive in the eye department.
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My father was leaving the lecture hall when he stepped out of the doorway and a snowball—or more accurately, an ice ball—came hurling from the side and hit him directly across his open eye.
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I was a voracious reader in my day and read many books that had been banned at one some point. I read most of them just for fun, or to satisfy a quota to read “so many” books per card-marking period. I read “Huck Finn” in 5th grade. Perhaps I was too young to understand all the nuances. I thought it was a great adventure story, reading it right after “Tom Sawyer”.

I read “1984” and “Catcher in the Rye” on my own during periods of high school vacation. The first I found very disturbing (even more so now, as we creep in the direction of totalitarian government and thought police). The second was a coming of age story – a disaffected youth. I didn’t relate to it all that well. I had my own stuff to deal with, but not like Holden Caulfield dealt with his stuff.

But the book that I loved best and had the most impact on me was “To Kill a Mockingbird”. I read it in 8th grade, not for a class assignment; again I read it on my own. My thoughts about it are probably mostly shaped by the Academy Award winning movie. I thought I looked like Scout, as depicted in the movie.

See what I mean? I had to look up what was so controversial that the book was banned. I gather it was the use of the “n” word. Interesting…that was how prejudiced people in the deep South spoke (the story takes place in rural Alabama from 1934-1936). It is based on Harper Lee’s own childhood experiences, whose father was a lawyer and newspaper publisher.

The novel also depicts prejudice, a lynching, poverty, the unjust accusation of a Black man assaulting a white woman. These are difficult subjects to be sure. A white lawyer is chosen to defend the Black man, so he has the hope of getting a fair trail. But there is no justice for Tom Robinson, even though it is clear that he couldn’t possibly have done the crime of which he is accused (he doesn’t have use of his right hand after a cotton gin accident, so couldn’t have struck the girl, as she claimed). The white girl committed the sin of flirting with him, her father beat her for it and falsely accused the Black man, knowing the other townspeople would back him. The jury, of course, sides with the perjured white people, the good lawyer tries to keep Tom Robinson calm, saying they will appeal to a higher court, but Tom is shot by the mob on his way back to jail.

Atticus Finch, the noble lawyer, is a widowed father of two young children, Jem and Scout, who have their own adventures. He tries to teach them morality, but Jem and Scout are attacked on their way home from a school play one autumn evening by the man who has killed Tom Robinson and is out for revenge on the family who defended Tom. Scout is in a costume and can’t really see what is happening, hears the scuffle, Jem’s arm is broken, she is picked up and carried to safety. A reclusive neighbor, who the children have tried to contact for years, actually rescues them, but wants to remain in the shadows. Scout realizes that her rescuer is none other than “Boo” Radley, her reclusive neighbor. She quietly escorts him home, understanding that exposing him would be as senseless as shooting a mockingbird, a bird who does nothing but bring joy with its song and is defenseless.

That is the basic plot. Published in 1960, the book won a Pulitzer Prize and is considered one of the greatest pieces of American literature ever published. Harper Lee remained reclusive her entire life. At the end of her life, she published a follow up novel (which was actually written first, but set aside for decades), that was not well-received. “Mockingbird” teaches moral lessons on race, prejudice, class and social welfare. I have always found it very moving and more than a few lawyers cite it as the reason they became lawyers. It is a movie I never tire of watching.

Shortly before the pandemic, we were lucky enough to see the Aaron Sorkin-adapted Broadway production of the work in New York. It obviously had to take a different slant, given the time and physical constraints of doing a live production. In it, he emphasized the role of Calpurnia, the housekeeper, who becomes more a moral center, speaking truths to Atticus, pointing out his flaws and weaknesses. He is no longer a perfect individual, but rather, trying to improve. It is a strong piece, even though it is different. We, the audience, are given a different, but equally interesting, perspective, now 60 years after the book was published.

I still don’t understand why the book was ever banned. There is much going on around the world, but particularly here in the United States that baffles and horrifies me today. How can children learn if their stereotypes are not challenged, if they are not taught to be critical thinkers, if they are not made to feel just a little uncomfortable and pushed in some ways. They need to leave their comfort zones and walk in another’s shoes, experience another’s ways, see how others feel and what better way to that than through the safety of reading and using one’s own imagination.

 

My father taught me to say prayers at bedtime: “Now I lay me down to sleep/ Bless my Lord, My soul to keep. If I should die before I wake/ Bless the Lord, My soul to take. God bless Mommy and Daddy and Ricky.” It was years before I realized that was not a Jewish prayer! I have no idea what my father was thinking, but I did like the ritual.

I don’t remember my parents reading to me (maybe my mother did a bit, but not a lot). I liked to read to myself as soon as I was old enough. I’d read for a while with the lights on (Mary Poppins, Cat in the Hat, Winnie the Pooh, Little Women when I was older), and under the covers with a flashlight after the lights were supposed to be out. My books were good company and I lived inside my head.

In Detroit, we had a small, three bedroom house. All the bedrooms were corner rooms. The window by my bed overlooked the driveway. My father worked two nights a week (and six days). I’d listen and wait for his car to come up the driveway. Once I heard it, I could truly rest.

I began reading to my own children as soon as they could sit still and sort of pay attention. My dear friend Valerie worked for a children’s book publisher when I was pregnant with David and a huge carton of books arrived before he was even born – all kinds from squishy, plastic books to be played with in the bath to cardboard books for infants to books for slightly older readers.

It was the beginning a great children’s library much of which I kept and a huge bag was brought over to London last December for Rosa. She is 5 months old, but they already read to her. She particularly likes “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom” because her dad makes a big sound “BOOM BOOM”. She waits for that.

Above, Jeffrey has a book open in his lap, ready for Dan to read to him, while David looks on. In the Featured photo, I’m pregnant with Jeffrey, sitting on David’s bed, reading a stack of books at bedtime (I believe they are Richard Scarry books). The children knew this was the way to relax at the end of the day: bath time, sometime to sip on before tooth brushing, reading, then into bed. David has always been a great sleeper. With Vicki’s hyperactive brain, not so much. Both of them sleep weird hours however, and there is nothing I can do about that at this point in their lives.

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I’ve already sent most of the classic young children’s books to London, but have one copy of this here in Newton. Eric Carle is the master and even has his own museum in Western MA, as his drawings are sublime.

I loved reading to my children – “Goodnight Moon”, “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom”, even the scary Roald Dahl books. As Jeffrey grew older, we read the whole Brian Jaques “Redwall” series aloud (eventually he outgrew me and read the books on his own; I missed snuggling and reading with him).

As I’ve described in previous stories, I’ve struggled with migraines for decades now and have been on a prescription cocktail at bedtime for over 20 years. An interrupted night’s sleep is a migraine trigger for me, so these meds help me fall asleep (though none are actual sleeping pills). Increasingly, the problem is getting enough sleep. I have become an early riser. As a teenager, I could easily sleep until noon. Once I entered the work force, of course, that had to end and early on, I discovered the best time to reach an executive (back in the days before cellphones) was early mornings, before secretaries arrived to screen calls. So I became the first person in the office. When children arrived, the habit of rising early was firmly established.

So now, even though nothing presses me to get up early, I find that I usually wake up around 6:30am, even though I usually go to bed around midnight. I no longer read much (due to dry eye). I know I am not supposed to read on screens at bedtime, but I do like to watch the news, so I get washed up, record the news, then fast-forward through it. My doctor recently said that the news these days is anxiety-provoking and it may not be a good idea to watch it and then try to fall asleep.

Lately, my sleep patterns have become weird. I’ve been waking in the middle of the night. I do fall back asleep, but certainly don’t feel rested when I wake up. I find that I nod out at night while watching TV. I may wake early in the morning, and have weird dreams as I drift in and out of sleep, also provoking feeling ill and headachy all day. I’m watching to see if this abates or if this becomes a permanent way of existence.

Having Rosa fall asleep in my arms was the sweetest!

 

I began wearing glasses at the age of 8. I couldn’t read the board clearly and knew something was amiss. I had become near-sighted. But my beloved teacher, Mrs. Zeve, wore glasses and she made it seem OK. I got pink, metal frames that weren’t too ugly. My second teeth; big and crooked, came in too and I felt like I looked like a freak. Kids mocked me. Those glass frames broke and the next ones weren’t as nice. The “cat’s eye”, pointed frames were fashionable. It wasn’t a great look for a little girl. I don’t think I carried it well. Also, it seems that my brain needs to see things crisply. As my vision would worsen, I’d get headaches, the beginning of a lifetime of dealing with migraines.

Soon after, I remember getting my first “floater”, clumps in the vitreous  (liquid) inside the eye, casting shadows on the retina. I asked the next-door neighbor boy to take a look and see if he saw anything in my eye (of course he couldn’t). I was very young for something like this. Usually these come with age, and indeed, they have increased. My left eye has some that are so large they almost entirely obscure my vision from time to time. And sometimes, I see little black dots and think there are bugs flying by and swat at them. Not helpful!

In 6th grade, that awful year when we moved from Detroit to Huntington Woods, my mother had a mental breakdown and the girls were so awful to me, one memory around those glasses sticks in my brain like a raw wound. I sat in the front row of desks. One morning, a boy who sat a few desks down from me, walked in, stood in front of me, held my chin in his hand, tilting my head this way and that. I thought he admired me. Then he took his comb out of his back pocket and combed his hair in the reflection of my glasses! That one hurts to this day. Of course he became a therapist.

I am 11 years old in the above Featured photo. It is my first day at the National Music Camp in June, 1964 (months after the above incident). My cabin hadn’t gotten our corduroy knickers yet (camp-issued uniforms). My parents found my brother and me in Main Camp (it was unusual for the little girls to be in Main Camp) and snapped this photo. It was also rare for me to be photographed wearing my glasses. Even at that age, I always took them off for pictures. I couldn’t wait to get contact lenses.

I got my first pair of contact lenses at the beginning of 9th grade. Those were original, hard lenses. We sat in the optometrist’s office every day for a few weeks as we built up wearing time and learned proper care for the lenses. I was a quick study and wore them very well. You could usually spot a lens wearer. She would blink a lot and maybe squint. I had no such problems and wore mine very successfully for years. At some point, my father bought me a second pair and dropped the insurance on them (they were expensive). I never lost a contact lens.

Sometime in the early 1980s (after wearing my original pair 15 years or so), I noticed my eyes were a bit blurry. I was standing on a Metro platform in Washington, DC with two colleagues. One also wore contact lenses and told me he’d had the same problem. He gave me the name of his ophthalmologist, whose office happened to be a few blocks from my home. I made an appointment and he identified the problem immediately. My original hard lenses didn’t let oxygen get to my corneas, causing the blurry damage. He prescribed gas-permeable lenses and everything cleared up. I stayed with this wonderful man through several office moves (he wound up as Head of General Eye Services at Mass Eye and Ear) until his retirement, many years ago. He was SO helpful.

Unfortunately, in January, 1990, I developed severe dry-eye. I produce only 20% of normal tear flow. My father died early that month, I was nursing a baby and it was winter; I thought it was a temporary phenomenon and would pass, but it didn’t. I couldn’t comfortably float my contact lenses on my eyes. About that month, Vicki later observed that I’d used up all my tears crying for my father.

I discussed this with my doctor. He suggested I try soft lenses. They have a high water content and could be more comfortable, but I probably wouldn’t get as good a correction. I was willing to try anything. I moved to those lenses and they were fine for a while, but even those became uncomfortable, so I’d save my wearing time for special occasions – if we went out in the evenings; times like that. Also, by the time I was 38, I found I needed to wear reading glasses over my contact lenses. I felt I was very young for that. I got graduated bifocals in my regular glasses. My eyes were rapidly deteriorating.

I tried plugs in my tear ducts to retain the tears on my eyes, but they didn’t work. I cauterized the lower tear ducts shut. I’m not sure it made any difference. I had to give up the contact lenses altogether. I’ve tried Restasis and even a new drug, Xiidra. Nothing worked. I appear to be allergic to Xiidra, as it caused tears to flow down my cheeks constantly (without bringing any relief to the chronic dry-eye).

I had followed the literature on photorefractive keratectomy (PRK) for some time. It was a way to correct severe (up to five diopters of myopia) by scraping and reshaping the cornea. It was legal in Canada, but not the US. It became legal here in 1995. After some discussion with my doctor, I moved forward with it (this was a precursor to LASIK, more involved and less comfortable). I did my right eye first on a Friday, had a painful weekend, but was fine by Monday. My vision was better, but not perfect. I moved on to the left eye. The doctor finally informed me that I ALSO had astigmatism. Who knew? No one had ever mentioned that to me, everyone was focused on the myopia. Correcting for the astigmatism was yet legal to do as part of the procedure. REALLY? So, though my vision was much better (though I had lost all my up-close vision and now needed strong reading glasses), I still needed to wear glasses. Sigh.

A year later, the procedure was approved for astigmatism. We went back and tried the left eye again, but got no improvement. There isn’t much remaining of my cornea to reshape. So I still need glasses. I’ve gone through all sorts of styles, but settled on a rimless pair because they are very lightweight (increasingly, anything pushing on my head can cause a migraine) and because it doesn’t obscure my face. But the type of correction that I need does cause my eyes to look a bit askew.

Increasingly, I have difficulty seeing at night and I find the other car lights blinding. I had my doctor check for cataracts each visit. I had the beginnings of them, but nothing serious. Yet, about five years ago, I had an evening incident that really frightened me, while driving on unfamiliar streets. My GPS gave me directions that I couldn’t follow, I couldn’t read the street signs, I got horribly lost and it took me a long time to get home, after dropping off a friend in Cambridge. I begged the doctor to do the surgery, which he did. Since we were traveling, and I had a chorus concert, I did the eyes a few months apart. He had cautioned me that I might not get perfect results because of the PRK surgery, which had tampered with my cornea. Indeed, though I can pass a driver’s test without correction, I would never drive without glasses, so still wear them almost all the time. I see well at a middle distance (eating a meal, talking to a friend at close range), but distance remains a problem, and of course, reading.

Since we spend so much time on the beach, and my eyes are quite sensitive to light, of course, I have prescription sunglasses too. Glare off snow is a problem too. I wear sunglasses often.

With a history of glaucoma in the family, what will the next chapter hold? I turn 70 this year and check on my eyes regularly. Time will tell.

 

 

 

 

Mom spent Mother's Days closeted.
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One day, in my late teens, at a family wedding, Mom was drinking as she usually was back then...
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