Mah Jongg Night

It's Wednesday and I am playing mah jongg tonight.

I know that sounds like the most routine statement in the world, but it's really not.  I have never played mah jongg before, although the sounds of the game were the backdrop for much of my young life.

Two crak.

Four bam.

Soap.

Soap??

Tonight I'll find out just what the hell that means.

A bunch of the women from my book group and I are getting together to learn the game. For some of us, it's pretty much a suburban rite of passage, especially if you are a Jewish woman of a certain age. For me, it feels like a birthright.

My parents moved to Long Island from Brooklyn, New York (via Bayside, Queens) in 1965.  For as long after that as I can remember, my mom had a standing date on Wednesday evenings to play mah jongg.

The game would rotate through everyone's home, one week at my mom Sally's, the next at Judy's. On to Alice's, Claire's and Rosalie's.

The coffee would be made, the Raisinetes dished out, the Entenmann's sliced, and the card table in the den set up.

One by one, the ladies would start to arrive. Laughter would waft upstairs alongside the cigarette smoke. Sometimes, it would get quiet ... not because the wagering was so fierce, but because the topic of conversation dictated more hushed tones.

Whose husband was cheating? Which parent was sick?  From Wednesday to Wednesday, the girls shared everything over the clacking of those tiles. And as I lay in bed straining to listen, I soaked it up, as well. Certainly, my vocabulary of profanity expanded exponentially.

Tonight, I am realizing the depth of what I learned from my mother's weekly game night, which is far less about what you are playing and way more about who is playing ... less about the tiles you pick and more about dealing with the hands you are dealt ... and not really about that one day a week when you are all together but the six when you are not, and yet carry each other in your hearts.

For my mom and her friends, the bonds that began at the weekly Wednesday night mah jongg game stretched into months and then years, through school days for their kids, bar mitzvahs, graduations, weddings, divorces, health scares, and yes, eventually even funerals.

The game and these women left quite an impression on me, and many of my friends clearly feel the same way. It's a connection to the past that binds us together in the here and now.

Which is why it's Wednesday ... and I am playing mah jongg tonight.

The Things We Take With Us And What We Leave Behind

The most memorable and significant trips in my life have been those from which there were many takeaways, whether they were fond memories of warm times with loved ones, new experiences tried and shared, delicious meals savored, or striking photographs documenting interesting, beautiful or unusual places visited.

We had many, many of these moments on our recent trip to Colorado, including seeing my son Justin perform with the talented 2012 company of Rocky Mountain Repertory Theater, which was the initial impetus for our journey.

This visit was notable, though, not just for what we brought home with us from Colorado, but also, for something very special we left behind.

We will remember so much of what we took away from nearly a week in Grand Lake … the number of stars you can see on a summer night more than a mile and a half above sea level, the look of accomplishment on your niece’s face when she climbs a rock higher than she’s ever seen before, the thrill of spotting a moose and her calf in the forest, longhorn sheep staking their long-held claim to the land you have just discovered, and countless elk grazing happily at the bottom of a mountain.

We’ll remember the rain that chilled us while we were out on horseback, and the smiles that warmed us pretty much everywhere else we went.  The beautiful voices we heard in a regional theater graced with superior talent and unparalleled hometown support.  The locally brewed beer, pulled pork, tequila shots, and chili verde that makes your insides hum.  The way your stomach lurches just a bit as you drive close to the edge of the twisting, narrow dirt road through the mountains.

The mountains. 

The Rocky Mountains. 

Our other reason for gathering as a family these past few days at the end of July. 

For longer than any of us can remember, the Rocky Mountains are where my mother wanted her physical remains to spend eternity after she passed on.  It was a desire she expressed over and over to pretty much anyone who was in a position to do anything about it.  Although truth be told, she was slightly more partial to the Canadian side than the lower 48.

Still, with Justin spending the summer at Rocky Mountain Rep in Grand Lake, at the western entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park, this was our best opportunity to gather the Appollo siblings, spouses and offspring, and carry out Mom’s final wish.  Colorado it would be.

And Colorado it was.

On our last full day together this past Sunday morning, the family gathered for a caravan to the park.  As Mom was in our car, she got serenaded with show tunes on the way up to Medicine Bow, an area my sister-in-law Karen suggested after their visit the day before. 

We hiked to a spot rimmed with snow-touched peaks, overlooking a deep valley dotted with the sparse shrubbery and wildflowers that will grow above tree level.  Only the scrappiest and most tenacious thrive here.  If you knew my mom, you’d know just how appropriate it was.

We shared our thoughts about the moment, some profound, some profoundly funny, and each of us took a turn scattering Mom’s ashes in a place we know she would have loved and will be content forever.  We cried.  We hugged.  We laughed.  And most importantly, we were together.  My brother, his wife and their children.  Me, my husband, and mine.  Also with us -- if not physically -- my mom’s friends and all of our extended family, so many of whom had shared their blessings on our journey.  We felt your presence that day, and it made it that much more special to know you were with us in spirit.

We took so many wonderful things away with us from our time in Grand Lake. And yet we left something -- someone -- precious and irreplaceable behind.

Later that afternoon, we gathered once again, this time, to enjoy more wonderful entertainment from the singers, dancers and actors at RMRT.  To be reminded of the magic that can happen when passion, talent and hard work collide.  To cheer, applaud, smile, and be proud.  To feel. To live. To celebrate life.

For while we left her physical remains behind on those mountains, we know that Mom is, and always will be, with us in our hearts and our souls.  And it is the absolute and utter certainty of that which is, I’m sure, the BEST thing each of us has carried home from Grand Lake.

Justin Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Just over twenty-two years ago, I wrapped up my newborn son in a sweater his grandmother made, strapped him into a brand new car seat, and brought him home.

Yesterday, I packed my car seats (and trunk and floors) with most of his possessions and moved him out.

While it's true that we have had variations on this theme for the past four years while Justin was in college, he has returned here when school was not in session.  Now that he has graduated, he is off to make a home of his own, albeit at first, in a summer sublet.

Sublets, I suspect, will be a staple of Justin's existence for a while.  He's a musical theater actor, and will likely be spending a good deal of his time, at least in the near future, on the road or wherever his work will take him.

This is not the first time he has left home, of course.  That distinction belongs to Stagedoor Manor, the performing arts camp where Justin spent six wonderful weeks for six amazing summers learning his craft, making lifelong friends, and working with a phenomenal group of professionals.  (If you look closely, you may still be able to spot a photo of him in some rather interesting headwear on the website.)

At the end of high school, Justin moved to Northwestern University, for four more years of classes and experiences that have helped him continue to grow into the accomplished young man and talented performer he is today.  He spent freshman year in a dorm, then moved into off-campus apartments for the remainder of his time in Evanston.

But always, he has come home.

Here.

Where he eats everything in sight in the refrigerator (along with things that may possibly have been hidden to escape easy detection).  Where he always parks a water glass on the kitchen counter by the microwave oven.  Where he never pushes in the piano bench after he's done playing.  And where the floor of his bedroom becomes increasingly less visible the longer he stays.

Where he sings in the shower, and mindlessly, everywhere else.  Does pirouettes in the den.  Makes me laugh.  Makes me think.  Makes me proud.

I know that my son is ready -- more than ready -- to move out and begin this next phase of his life.  I know that much of what I have done during the past twenty-two years has been to help prepare him for just this day.  Roots ... wings ... check.  I know this is a time to be much more happy than sad, and what I am feeling is more about nostalgia for the things we have shared than any kind of sorrow for what I might miss.

Justin is moving to New York City to pursue his dreams and share his gifts.  He has been wanting this and working toward it for years.  I am grateful that his future looks so bright.

And as he begins this next stage of his life, I am beyond thankful that the first stage was such a profound and wonderful part of mine.

Besides, now I won't have to hide my leftovers anymore.

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.