Remembering What's Important

There’s a relatively new supermarket near my home I’ve been shopping at since it opened. It’s got a great produce department, a well-stocked deli, a fresh fish counter and a nice selection of meat. Unfortunately, the one thing it lacks is the most conscientious cashiers. They’re kids, mostly, so I try to give them a break, but I’ve already had a few experiences when coupons haven’t been applied and I’ve had to go back with the receipt for credit. It's annoying. 

The store manager and I have already become fast friends, and it’s almost a running joke at this point, although I’m sure he doesn’t actually think it’s funny when he sees me, and I am not amused that it keeps happening.

Like yesterday.

I had two manufacturers’ coupons, each for a dollar, and I handed them to the cashier before he began ringing up my items. I then went to the end of the belt and began bagging. Quickly enough, he gave me the total, and as soon as I swiped my credit card, announced he’d forgotten the coupons. Aargh. Again?? At least this time, I was still in the store.

I headed over to the “Courtesy Counter” where I found … no one.  My mild irritation began to morph beyond aggravation and veer toward exasperation. I walked back to the cashier and asked how to get someone to help me. A search ensued, several minutes passed, and finally, a young man appeared to process the transaction. Did I want the credit on the card I’d used or would cash be okay? Cash, please. Much quicker, and this has taken FAR too long already.

Now, before you think I am making way too much of this, you have to understand this is at least the fourth time I’ve had a problem like this in this store. Corporate knows about it, the cashiers have (supposedly) had extra instruction, and I’ve been assured they’re being vigilant.

Oh, yeah, I can see that.

I took my two bucks, turned my wagon around and, fueled by a roiling sense of indignation, rolled out of the store.  

Smack into a slim, distinguished looking older man holding a handful of small silk flowers. Not gonna lie -- the same man I brushed right past on my way in, and had already plotted how to avoid on the way out. A former serviceman collecting donations for the Veterans of Foreign Wars. 

VFW "Buddy Poppies" are assembled by disabled, needy and aging veterans in VA Hospitals and Veterans Homes across the country. The money raised from the campaign is used for the welfare of veterans or their dependents or orphans. It helps maintain rehab and service programs for these men and women who risked, and sometimes lost, their lives for our country. 

Suddenly, the two singles I got back for my coupons had a whole lot more meaning, reminding me that it's really not that big a deal to forget some things, but we must always remember some others. Umbrage gave way to gratitude. The scowl I’m sure I was wearing became a smile.

“How much are the flowers?” I asked. 

“Whatever you care to donate,” he said.

Two bucks it is, sir, and thank you VERY MUCH for your service.

Gifts

Last week, I had the pleasure of attending a dinner in Manhattan for my college radio station, WVBR. We hold them from time to time as a way to keep our alumni in touch with each other and introduce us to the Cornell University students who are currently working at the station. The dinners are a lovely way for us to socialize, catch up, meet new people, and perhaps rekindle old friendships.

This time, though, there would be another, very special component.

WVBR is in the middle of a fundraising effort to relocate the station from its inadequate facility in the basement of the New York Holstein Association on the outskirts of the Cornell campus to one that is state-of-the-art and more accessible to students. Until 2000, when the station was forced to move, it was situated just off campus in Collegetown, making it easy to get to and a natural hangout in between (or, in some cases, instead of) classes. Careers were launched there. Deep friendships were forged. Some marriages may even have resulted. ;-)

Since the move, things have been quite different, as its far-flung location required tremendous effort and dedication for the students to get there.

Wanting to address the problem, within the last year, the WVBR Board of Directors amped up its efforts to return WVBR to its Collegetown roots.

Recently, a house became available on East Buffalo Street in Ithaca, just off campus and less than a half mile from our old digs at 227 Linden Avenue. All we needed were the financial resources to make it happen.

Enter the WVBR Capital Campaign, spearheaded by my husband Peter and tended to by some VERY hardworking and generous alumni. Among them, our friend Keith Olbermann ('79), who has made significant contributions to the radio station before. 

Keith indicated he would, indeed, like to help, and he would make a substantial donation to facilitate the purchase. The official announcement was to be made at last week's dinner. Keith's endowment would cover the "naming rights" for the new building, which will be called the Olbermann-Corneliess Studios, in honor of Keith's late father, Theodore, and Glenn Corneliess, a dear friend and former program director of the radio station, who died in 1996 at the age of 39.  

Glenn is largely responsible for my career in radio. He was a friend and mentor to me in a crucially important stage of my life. He was brilliant where radio was concerned, and passionate about it and so much else. He was giving with his time and expertise, and fiercely loyal, although he loved a good argument, even (especially?) with those he liked most. We lost him to a massive heart attack caused by Marfan Syndrome, with which he had not been diagnosed in time.

And so we gathered in midtown for an evening of drinks, dinner, conversation, and the very special check presentation. Among our guests, Glenn's widow Kathy and two of his three children, Brian and Patrick. 

Keith Olbermann and Kathy Corneliess

It was a truly special night. The food was good, the company, even better. Keith sat with the Corneliess family regaling them with stories of time spent together with Glenn at WVBR. Brian and Pat paid rapt attention, soaking up these memories of a father they barely knew. Even Kathy, who met Glenn after college, learned more about the husband she lost far too early.

There was laughter and more than a few tears, especially when Keith made his dedication, noting his gratitude to the radio station and his friendship with Glenn, who, he said, "surely would've objected to the ordering of our names until I told him that this precludes any chance that anybody will ever think there was a guy named 'Corneliess Olbermann'."

Today, the tale of Keith's generosity became public, published first by The Hollywood Reporter, then picked up by TV Newser and the Daily Kos.

The articles are wonderful and a true testament to Keith's extraordinary benevolence. But they only begin to touch on what was perhaps the greatest gift he bestowed that evening and the people who will benefit from it most: Kathy, Brian and Patrick Corneliess, along with their sister Caitlin. What Keith did for the Corneliess family FAR surpasses naming a building after Glenn, as huge as that is ... he brought Glenn to life for them in a way that few others could.

All of us suffered an incalculable loss when Glenn died, but none more so than his family. His children have what Peter's called an "unfillable gap" that those of us who knew and loved Glenn have tried to close in the years since his passing. Last Thursday evening, as Keith sat with them sharing story after story, he went a long way toward filling that hole.

Not to diminish in any way the giant check for "a whole f'in bunch" of money Keith wrote out that night, but that was the greatest gift of all.

L-R: Keith Olbermann, Patrick, Kathy and Brian Corneliess, Peter Schacknow, Dan Zarrow, Drew Endick

Harmony And Me

I have always been so impressed by, possibly even a little in awe of, people who can sing harmony. Those who wrap their voices around a bit of melody and embellish it with sound that augments and complements it so beautifully, elevating it from a piece of music to piece of magic.

I, myself, am not possessed of this ability.

Oh, I've tried. Sometimes, I can sort of manage pick out a note or two that sounds right, although more often than not, I pretty much suck at it, I've gotta admit.  As much as I admire born harmonizers like my son Justin, who has a gift for it ... as much as I aspire to be able to do it -- to add even more beauty to an already pretty melody -- I just can't.

This past Friday night, however, I realized something about harmony: it can't exist without melody. I know this seems basic, but I had never thought about it in such terms before. I think I had always felt the lack of my ability to sing harmony instead of my ability to facilitate it.

Fundamental, right? But for me, this was truly a revelation.

On Friday night, I was privileged to be participating in my synagogue's annual Sisterhood Shabbat, during which the women of our South Huntington Jewish Center community lead Friday night and Saturday morning services.  I have done this several times in years past, whether by reading Torah or reciting prayers in either English and Hebrew. This year, I was asked to sing the final prayer of the Friday night service, Yigdal.

Yigdal consists of thirteen lines of Hebrew. Traditionally, the prayer leader (in this case, me) sings the first line solo and the second line with the congregation, the third line solo and the fourth line together, and so on.  It's sung moderately fast and the Hebrew can be a bit challenging in spots, especially for one not quite fluent in it (in this case, again me).

I had never learned this prayer and certainly never led a synagogue full of worshipers in it, so I devoted a fair amount of time and study last week into trying to master it. Every part of a service is important, but this would be our last prayer for the evening, and I wanted to make sure we went out on a good note (no pun intended). Besides, I would never volunteer to do this -- or anything -- unless I was prepared to do it right.

I printed out a copy. I downloaded the mp3 file of my Cantor, Brian Shamash, singing it. (Hazzan Shamash, by the way, is another one of those harmony savants.)  I sounded out the words, I put them to the music, and I practiced until I felt comfortable standing in front of my Rabbi, Cantor and fellow members leading them in song and prayer.

I don't want to make it sound like the biggest challenge in the world; it wasn't. But for someone who learned to read Hebrew late in life, it wasn't the easiest, either. And for someone who may struggle a bit with perfectionism, there is an extra added layer of self-imposed pressure.

That said, I felt fairly comfortable by the time Friday night rolled around. I enjoyed the service without dwelling too much on my small, impending contribution. And I ascended the ramp to the bimah without too much trepidation.

Finally, it was my turn.

Please turn to page 53 for Yigdal.

I was off, my voice ringing clear and true throughout the sanctuary.

The voice in my head, however, was doing something else entirely:

Okay, I got the first line out ... so far not too bad!  

Oh, and listen, the congregation is chiming in with the second line! 

My turn again!  

Whew ... I think I've got this!!

Wait -- what's that?

HARMONY??!

The Cantor is singing harmony with me!

And I'm not losing the melody!  

Oh, wow, I really must not be sucking at this!

He would never do that and risk messing me up if I didn't sound like I actually knew it!

I must not be sucking at this at all!!

Two-and-a-half minutes or so later, we all finished in unison, smiled and wished each other Shabbat Shalom, a peaceful Sabbath, as the service concluded.

I felt good. I had done my part, contributing to a moving and beautiful evening of services conducted entirely by the women of my synagogue. And I didn't disappoint anyone, most especially myself.

We left the sanctuary to enjoy a post-service Oneg Shabbat, a light dessert spread to add even more sweetness to our celebration. We mixed, mingled and exchanged pleasantries and congratulations.

At one point, I was able to thank the Cantor and tell him I knew with certainty I was doing okay when he began to sing with me. He smiled and acknowledged he had thought about it before joining in because he didn't want to throw me off, but when he started, softly at first, and I held steady, he grew bolder. And so it was that we were able to create something even more beautiful together.

And that's when I had my "ah hah" moment: It wasn't that I had taught myself Yigdal, but what learning Yigdal had taught ME. I realized that singing my part -- the melody -- was at least as important as those gorgeous harmonies I had always revered. Had I not provided a strong, stable foundation, there would be nothing to build upon. Hazzan Shamash could not have done his thing had I not done mine.

My thing has always been providing that strong, stable foundation. I am the planner, the detail person. I handle things. I research, I thrive on facts. I am the advice-giver, the solid support system, the one you can count on ... a "Momager", as my son calls me.

In short, I carry the tune. The simple, unadorned melody. I have left it to others in my life to be the harmony, as it is something they do so brilliantly.

My friends are broadcasters, musicians, artists and comedians. Some write, choreograph or direct theater. My daughter crafts beautiful poetry. My son is a talented singer, dancer and actor.

I am their audience.

It is not that I have not felt the worth in that (or loved every minute), but I have often yearned for the ability to create the art that they do.  To be the harmony to their melody for a change, or even to add a fifth to their third.

Friday night, however, it hit home to me in a way it never had before that my role is, indeed, valuable. Vital, in fact. Without that foundation, that base, that strong, solid tune, there can be no harmony. We truly are mutually dependent, as the Cantor showed me during Yigdal.

So, to all my talented friends (and especially my children) I say this: I am privileged to be your audience. Please continue to make your art for me to look at and listen to. Always wrap me in such beauty and song. Surround me with your stirring words and passion. Never stop dancing and writing and painting and designing. For as long as you do, you will continue to remind me that I am doing my part, providing that foundation -- that open, warm, and welcoming environment that just gets more beautiful when we join forces and experience it together.

Harmony. 

I like the sound of that.

I Do, DQ

There is a blizzard in my future.

Of course, this being January, you might not be surprised to read that, although you might wonder how I can state it with such certainty.  Global warming and all, you know.

Or perhaps you have guessed that this is no mere random meteorological prognostication on my part, and there is, in fact, something more profound involved. Thank you for the benefit of the doubt.

I had my first (and so far only) blizzard (or, more properly, "Blizzard") at the Dairy Queen on Palisade Avenue in Fort Lee, New Jersey in the summer of 1998.  I was on a date, having recently been divorced, and it was a warm evening that just cried out for a nightcap of ice cream.  (I scream, you scream ... ) I can't remember now if the DQ was our destination or we stumbled upon it, but we were drawn in by the lights, the crowd, and the anticipation of soft-serve goodness.

We were not disappointed.  We took our treats to a corner of the parking lot bounded by huge trees lying on their sides to serve as benches.  We sat and enjoyed the ice cream, soaking up the ambiance, the warmth of the summer night and this promising new relationship.  There may even have been some kissing going on.

Yes. Yes, I'm sure of it.

Oh, trust me, nothing sloppy or inappropriate, given our family-friendly locale.  It was all very tasteful -- and tasty, what with all that ice cream!  But there was definitely some kissing going on.

The crowd was in high spirits, drawn together as we were by the beautiful evening and DQ deliciousness.  It was the kind of festive atmosphere where strangers feel like friends.  Conversation passed between couples and groups.  There were smiles, laughter and camaraderie.

So it wasn't entirely shocking when a man leaned out the window of his car as he was leaving and yelled over to us, "You're going to have to marry her now, buddy."

A moment in time neither of us have forgotten.

Not then.  Not six months later when Peter proposed -- fourteen years ago today.  Not the following summer when we got married.  And certainly not when I read the article on a local patch.com website that Long Island will be getting its first-ever Dairy Queen this coming May in my hometown of Massapequa ... almost fifteen years after our Fort Lee DQ date.

To this day, we don't know how the guy in the parking lot knew we weren't married. Do you look at each other or act differently together over time?  Do the public displays of affection become that much more rare?  Do you seem less like people who are together because you want to be and more because, well, you just are?

I hope not.  And I really don't think so.

Which is why there is a Blizzard in my future.  We will visit the Massapequa Dairy Queen when it opens this spring, and I will sit with my husband on whatever is their equivalent of that sideways log in the parking lot enjoying both it and his company.

And, oh yeah, there will definitely be some kissing going on.

My Unforgettable Mother

Two years ago this evening, I got the call from the hospital that my mom had died.  It wasn’t unexpected, although the beginning of her precipitous slide surely had been.  Unfortunately, as things progressed, it was no longer an issue of “if” but “when”. 

The only real question was whether my mom would leave us on Christmas or wait until the following day. 

Before you get overly emotional, you should know that we are Jewish and do not celebrate Christmas, so this is less fraught with symbolism and significance than it otherwise might be.  That said, after we had kept our vigil and had family visit throughout the day, I did mention to the doctors that if they could keep her comfortable and prolong things to even a minute past midnight, that would probably be preferable to me over having her die on Christmas, when each year, the calendar would blink a big red and green reminder that TODAY WAS THE DAY.

Well, if you knew my mother, you would know that Christmas it was.  Of course.  Sally Appollo did not know from subtle.  She *had* to go on Christmas.  In case we’d forget.

Last year, the first anniversary of her death, was a bit difficult.  The tears would come without me realizing or knowing exactly why.  Although, of course, I knew exactly why.  As if I could forget.

That day was made a bit easier knowing we were about to put my daughter Jordan on a plane for her Birthright visit to Israel … an occasion to celebrate, if ever there was one.  All of us felt as if there would be an extra passenger on board: a weightless guardian angel named Grandma.

And though I hate to succumb to cliché, time really does heal.  In the past year, we laid my mom to rest in the way she had requested, scattering her ashes in the Rocky Mountains.  I feel that she and I are at peace.  She resides amid the grandeur and glory of this gorgeous mountain range, and I have become comfortable with both her absence from and presence in my life.

She has challenged my skepticism by visiting me through two psychics, John Edward and Theresa Caputo.  And while I can’t go so far as to say I am a true believer, I did find both experiences at once soothing and cathartic. 

Which brings us to today, anniversary number two.  We decided, true to our Jewish roots, to see a movie and go out for Chinese food.  We also decided, true to our musical theater-loving roots, to see Les Miserables.  We settled into our seats, sat through the previews, and eagerly anticipated the start of the movie.  We thrilled to the opening scene, saw Jean Valjean be granted his freedom, steal the bishop’s silver, begin to repent and … BOOM, the screen went dark.

They eventually got it going again and BOOM -- it happened again!

Mom??

I’m sure. 

TWICE.  In case we weren’t sure the first time.  In case we’d forget.

Third time’s a charm, I suppose, and when they started the film again, it ran all the way through.  Brilliantly and magnificently.  Without a dry eye in the house.

And with some of us possibly crying for more than just the film.

We came back home before going out to dinner.  I poured a glass of wine and started to straighten up a messy pile of papers in the kitchen.  You know, the one with my mom’s yahrzeit postcard from my synagogue in it.

My mom died on the 18th day of the Hebrew month of Tevet.  Christmas day in 2010.  This year?  New Year’s Eve.  New Year’s Eve!!   

Really, Sal??!

As if we would forget.

A Space Case

I am SO ashamed.  I'm annoyed at myself.  And I'm absolutely embarrassed.

I found out today, thanks to a Slate article posted by a friend on Facebook, that I am guilty of committing a terrible crime.  It’s positively heinous, apparently.  Reprehensible.  And not only that, I’ve been doing it for as far back as I can remember! 

Hi, my name is Peri, and I’m a double-spacer. 

I admit it: I add two spaces after the period at the end of a sentence.

Of course, I did not invent this convention on my own, it was taught to me in junior high school typing class (you know, back in the dark ages of things known as typewriters), and I have been doing it ever since.  Unrepentantly.  And without knowing I was committing such a felonious assault on the aesthetic senses of graphic designers worldwide -- although I’m informed that ignorance of my crime is no excuse.

Back "in the day" when we were learning to type on typewriters, they featured monospace type, in which each character took up an equal amount of space no matter how wide the letter was.  Double spacing made it easier to mark the separation between sentences.  Today, unless you choose a monospace font such as Courier on your computer, you are probably using a proportional font, and double spacing is no longer necessary.  In fact, most designers agree that two spaces makes it more difficult on the eyes, although I don't think that's ever been proven.  

Clearly, I never got that particular memo.

Further compounding this typographical transgression, not only have I shown no remorse, I have tried to indoctrinate my children in this cult of commodious composition: “correcting” their papers when they have done nothing more than toe the linotype line and maintain the type-setting status quo, smugly single-spacing away.

It is hard for me, as an inveterate double-spacer, to accept that the most commonly accepted style guides of our day, the Modern Language Association, Associated Press and American Psychological Association handbooks, all recommend single spacing.  But indeed they do.  We are talking of a *lifetime* of practice here, only to find out I have been doing this wrong all along!  It is ONE space after a period … period!

Can I break myself of this terrible habit?  (And is this the only error I have been making?  We DO still capitalize words at the beginning of sentences, right?  Subjects and verbs are still to agree, no?  Yes!)

And so begins my quest to cure myself of this nasty little peccadillo. Oh look, I just typed only one space between these two sentences!  I’m on my way!

I’ll get there, I’m sure; it’s just going to take some time. 

And I may need a little, um ... space.

No Day But Today

"There's only us

There's only this
Forget regret
Or life is yours to miss
No other road
No other way
No day but today"

Hauntingly beautiful lyrics from Rent, of course, which detail as good a reason as any to resurrect my blog today. Then, of course, there is the unspeakable tragedy that is Newtown, Connecticut, which reminds us that life can be fleeting, fragile, and filled, by turns, with heroism, grace, and heartbreaking sadness.  I realize that documenting what we feel can be important; how we interact with each other, even more so.

I haven't totally neglected my writing, occasionally posting Notes to Facebook when emotions or events have moved me to do so, but I haven't exactly made a conscious effort at it, either.

I have been thinking about it, though, encouraged by several friends to blog more regularly, but wondered (and still do) if I have enough to say.  Do I have a unique enough perspective to add to the collective consciousness? A distinctive point of view?

I hope so. I'd even like to think so ... Lord knows I've got enough opinions on things!

If not, I'm hoping that here is where I can hone all of the above, or at the very least, clarify, quantify, develop and explore.

No other way
No day but today"

Apart from that, let's boogie, enjoy the ride, have fun at our own (and probably others') expense, and see where we wind up.

Another rhyme, a warm embrace
Another dance, another way
Another chance, another day"
"Come back another day
Another day"

Life is full of people, places and things that make lasting (or fleeting) impressions on us.  Sometimes, they really are worthy of reflection or commentary.

Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living."  (Talk about someone with opinions!)  Sure, I think that some might be happy without questioning things, challenging accepted beliefs, exploring motives, or simply wondering why.  That's just not me.  I've always believed that understanding where I've been, how I got there, and where I'm going helps me lead a happier, more productive life.  It also gives me a much better understanding of what others might be going through and how we may all fit together.  

"No other course
No other way
No day but today"

"Another time, another place
Another rhyme, a warm embrace
Another dance, another way
Another chance, another day"

This life is only what we make it, and it's so much more meaningful when we share the experience with each other.

"Come back another day
Another day"

Please.  

I look forward to sharing with and hearing from you.