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.

My Mom's Azalea

Yesterday, I returned from spending a wonderful four-day visit with my daughter at the University of Miami.  It was a blessing for both of us.  After months away from home with no physical contact between us, she needed her mom.  And I needed to be needed.  We did a lot of nothing special except spending time together, which is really the most special thing of all, and the visit filled us both up and helped get her ready for the final push to the end of this spring semester, the final one of her first year away.

It brought me back a long way, to the spring of my sophomore year, my first at Cornell University, where I landed as a transfer student in the middle of a long, cold, snowy winter … the very first I was to spend on my own away from home.  Ithaca was always beautiful, but it could be brutal, and the thaw came late that year.  Back on Long Island, the gardens were in bloom, especially the one in the front of my house that my mom had planned and planted herself with a beautiful assortment of evergreens and dwarf shrubs.

Perhaps the most striking plant in the garden was a tremendous lilac azalea, its large soft purple flowers opening like trumpets to announce the annual changing of the seasonal guard from winter to spring.

That spring, a Polaroid of the azalea came enclosed in a letter to me at school (which knowing my mother, almost surely contained an original poem, as well).  It soothed my soul in the same way I hope my visit touched Jordan’s … it was a needed glimpse of home toward the end of a long journey.  The regal plant reminded me of where my own roots were, in that garden back home on Long Island.

Many years later, the bush got so large it needed thinning.  Mom dug up a part and asked if I’d like to add it to my own home garden.  Yes, I would.  And I did.  I will always remember the happiness and comfort it brought me seeing that plant, even in a photograph, and I would love to have it grace my own landscape.

I transplanted it two summers ago, just about six months before my mother passed away.  It’s taken firm root here now, growing, blossoming and linking me even more firmly to my past through its presence.

Which made it all the more fitting that it is what greeted me when I pulled into my driveway after returning from my visit with Jordan … my own Azalea x ‘Robles’ 'Autumn Lilac'.  In glorious bloom.  The plant and its beauty live on, continuing to tie our family together and link one generation to the next.

Roots.  They’re extraordinary things.

I Want To Smell Like Ralph

I want to smell like Ralph.

Not the guy, the perfume.  I know I have an old bottle of it somewhere in my bathroom vanity at home, and while it’s not my signature fragrance (that would be Estee Lauder Pleasures), I like it.  It’s fresh.  It’s clean.  It’s youthful.  And it’s beautiful.

How do I know this?  Not from the Ralph Lauren marketing department.  Not even from my own experience while trying it on for size several years ago.  No, I know this from my recent run along the Ibis Trail, a four-mile loop around the University of Miami campus I navigated yesterday while visiting my daughter Jordan, a student at the school.

It was a gorgeous morning, with clear blue skies and a slight breeze.  The campus is really pretty, and running the trail is a great way to see a lot of it and better learn your way around, which I am trying to do, since this is just freshman year for her .

I’m also trying to stay healthy, tone myself up and keep my weight down, although to be perfectly honest, it needs to be about fifteen pounds further down than it is right now.  Trips to UM don’t help, with all the inevitable eating out, but I wouldn’t trade a visit for anything, so I am being diligent about keeping up with my exercise.

And that’s what brought me to campus yesterday morning, running (barely) among the slender, fit, healthy, beautiful young men and women who are students there.  Many of whom were wearing Ralph.  (I know this not because anyone committed the Great Perfume Faux Pas of over-application, but because I was inhaling rather deeply from my own over-exertion.)  How many girls were wearing it was actually quite surprising.  As was my realization that they smelled the way I was running to look.  Hah!  The fragrance itself became a kind of fuel … the scent motivating me, urging me on.  I’d pass another pretty girl and smell it again.  I’d run some more, a little faster.

The sun was warm, the sweat dampened my shirt, and I’m sure I smelled nothing like they did, but I was inspired.  I added an extra half-mile, finished wearily but triumphantly, and went back to my hotel to shower, change and get ready for the rest of the day.  I put on my makeup, blew out my hair and added my customary spray of Pleasures before leaving the room to meet my daughter for lunch. 

"Mmmm, Mommy, you smell good!"

Yes, I smell like Pleasures. 

My kids know it, my husband loves it, and I have come to embrace it.    

But I want to smell like Ralph.