Dr. Freud, Wake Up!

Recently I read in the Times that the decision makers of the Psychiatric profession at their annual meeting have declared the malady called “hoarding phobia”, an official mental illness: eligible for treatment by a certified shrink. Covered, thank the lord, by Medicare.

I’ve often wondered how they decided these things. So now I know. And I am delighted. Indeed, Dr. Freud should be alive to share this milestone of medical science. I wondered to myself how he would react to this historic moment.          

With me, saving stuff is sort of a personal thing. Not a disease, simply more of a sentimental habit.

Got it doctor? A habit, not a compulsion. Not an obsession.

I simply don’t throw significant stuff away. Dr. Freud, are you listening? For very logical, non-psychiatric reasons.

I have become more aware of this in recent years since Margie has become my partner. She doesn’t have my compulsion to keep things. She a cleaner, a straightener, a thrower away. As you know that hasn’t been labeled a sickness. Not Yet.

Stuff, it turns out, is in my mind the essence of life in these days of digital non-existence. Without stuff, what is there? what’s left that has any meaning? Digitalized faces and words, down in the bowels of some computer somewhere on a discarded iPhone...only to be relegated onto some cloud up there somewhere never to be seen or heard from again.

That’s not stuff. That’s not essence. That’s not human, doctor.

As I move more deeply into my octo years, I tend to fixate on this kind of stuff. For example, aging photos of my grandfather Maurice and Grandma Lida on the beach at Lake Erie in 1911. I never knew him.

But he is there in my heart, as a good looking man and a warm human being. I cherish dozens of hand written love letters between the two lovers when they were courting. They both worked downtown. Passion. You could feel it growing through the months of courtship... The earliest letter started with “Leda”, then Dear Friend Lida, My Dearest Lida, and then simply, Dearest. You could feel the passion growing, as Grandma Lida began more to respond, sometimes passionately...and then the wedding.

I know Grandpa Maurice through his written, articles in the Saturday Evening Post about Mark Hanna and President McKinley, about theater and politics in the Plain Dealer. His crusade to have Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice taken from the curriculum of the Cleveland schools for their anti-Semitic overtones.

Yes I know, Dr. Freud that sounds like censorship. But things were very different for Jews in the in the 1920’s and thirties. You must remember. When you got kicked out of Germany simply because you were Jewish.

And then, Dr. Freud, there was the fate of Grandma Belle, Grace’s mother, a magnificent woman who taught kindergarten in the New York City schools most of her life, starting in a one room schoolhouse on Staten Island. She died unexpectedly in the 80’s. And by the time we got to the apartment on the west side of Manhattan, her husband, a very pragmatic pharmacist, was cleaning out the closets of every stitch of her clothing.  He piled up the school things and other mementos, and wanted them out.

Sadly, there was a truck driver strike in New York. No one could pick up anything. So we decided to give it all to the custodian, a nice man with a family, who promised to get it all to the proper place, where it would be useful.

A couple of days later, after the funeral, we were walking out of the apartment on busy W. 79^th Street to hail a cab to LaGuardia, and there it all was, strewn on the sidewalk and the gutter. The essence of her life simply waiting for the rubbish drivers strike to end. There was absolutely no distinction on the sidewalk of this busy Manhattan street between the rubbish, the garbage and Grandma Belle. I had a lump in my throat, Grace was in tears as we headed out to the airport. She didn’t stop crying until we landed in Cleveland.

It was over, very much over.   

Today in the antiseptic digital age...they simply close down your Facebook homepage and it’s over. No muss no fuss.

“Dr, Freud, are you listening?” I said “It all started when I was a nervous little kid. I starting saving newspaper articles. I still have them.”

What? Am I covered, by what??? Yes I have full Medicare, and AARP gap.  You’ll be paid in full, don’t worry doctor. As I was saying, I was a little boy. I think I felt guilty when I thought about sex, and...Dr. Freud you’re dozing off again...Dr. Freud!

 

Weiner’s Tweets, Eliot’s Tarts, Truman’s Bomb

When God, in his wisdom, dictated the first chapter of the Hebrew Bible he describes in some detail how he created all the stuff in the universe. The sky, the sea, the animals, day and night; after each he declared “and it was so” and/or “it was good”. But when he got to the creation of man, he either intentionally or by accident left out the phrase “and it was good” which set off a chain of events for which it appears we are still paying dearly.

I thought about that the other day I when read that Anthony Weiner, that brilliant former New York congressman is now the front runner in the race for Mayor of New York City. He’s the fellow who allegedly took a picture of his crotch encased in his tight jockey-type underpants, and then put it out on Twitter for the world l to see.

Let us call it God endowed Human Nature run amuck.

And almost too good to be true, Eliot Spitzer, defamed New York Governor, has announced he is running for office in New York City. He was discovered to have been much too personally involved with a house of ill repute.

And then there’s that financial genius, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, touted to be the next President of France, and called in the media “the most intelligent man in France.” He was caught running around his luxury New York hotel room naked, chasing a 32-year-old West African chamber maid demanding sexual satisfaction.

One can only conclude that God is apparently still frantically but unsuccessfully struggling to repeal his initial error.

He, of course, knew he had a problem when he created the first man and then the first woman from his rib. The first guy did not need to chase her around the room. Or send a tweet. He simply tempted her and she fell into his arms.

 

With the exception of the great flood, there was a relatively quiet period for the next 400 years, while the Israelites were busy advising the pharaoh on economic matters, designing and then constructing the pyramids. But when the people of Israel began losing those top government jobs they left Egypt and began trekking eastward across the North African desert. Without pyramids to build and pharaohs to advise they got out of hand and started worshiping a calf made out of highest quality gold.

Alarmed about his obvious loss in popularity, God told his spokesperson (Moses) to go up the nearest mountain and come down with his ten amendments, as you might call them. To this day Israelites all over the world mark the anniversary of that event with a holiday called “Shavuot” celebrated in the spring.

It is not clear whether the amendments really changed anything.  The jury is still out.

As we still struggle with war and brutality in far off lands once occupied by those same Israelites, it is difficult pour over history and find much positive spin.

A new book, for example, tells us that Abe Lincoln and Charles Darwin were born on the same day. Lincoln, we are told, either ordered or permitted young boys who deserted the army to be hung after being forced to sit on their own coffin for a day, before their terrible premature deaths. 

Darwin, whose father in law was a minister, fearing he had defied God’s word, waited years until he published the book that changed the way we look at history.

Another new book called Final Jeopardy, describes how some of the great technological minds at IBM spent years to create a robot-like device called “Watson” to outsmart the human brain, which managed to beat some of the best.

Mother Nature, in all her majesty, has not fared much better. In her pristine forms she is magnificent. Enough to move great writers and painters to replicate nature’s wondrous beauty. It seems we couldn’t leave well enough alone and thought we could conquer those forces which brought the earth to life.

We raped the forests, poisoned our rivers and our air in the name of progress.  We even tampered with the atom, the stuff of which nature is made. 

One of God’s own Israelites, Albert Einstein, found a way mathematically to tear the Atom, the fundamental substance of nature, apart. Others labored in the hills of New Mexico, to create mankind’s most devastating weapon, using the Einstein equation as its basis. Their monster was capable of killing or horribly burning hundreds of thousands of human beings at a time.

When the time came to use it, President Truman told the world that he “never lost a night’s sleep” over the decision. But, to his everlasting credit, we know for sure that he never knew that it led to the incineration of 200,000 innocent Japanese.  But one thing is certain; he never would have twittered an amorous message to anyone. Never.

Nor, as far as we know, did he ever chase a chamber maid around a hotel room. Or hire a call girl.  Probably because his lovely wife Bess would have hit him on the head with a broomstick.

He did, history records, call Paul Hume, the music critic of the Washington Post, a “son of a bitch”, for criticizing his daughter Margaret’s performance at the piano.  That’s as good, or bad as it gets.

    

God help us!

        

What’s it all about, Tommy?

Back in that other century, on his 90^th birthday, my “Uncle Tommy” jumped rope for twenty minutes at the downtown YMCA, without so much as breathing hard or turning red in the face. So notable was his achievement that there was a picture and story in the Cleveland Press. It was mentioned that he was a physical fitness aficionado, and went regularly to the summer Bernard McFadden health camp in Western New York, and was one of their prized students.

Tommy lived for much of his later years in a quiet house on the road to Chardon. He was never married, but was very successful in business, founding a food service business that eventually served a majority of the city’s factory workers called United Food Services.

Shortly after he reached that landmark birthday he was living in a disheveled apartment in the Statler Hotel downtown.  A year later he was dead, having been ripped off a by a couple who befriended him, feigning to care for him. He left no immediate survivors.

He was good gentleman. Short, with twinkling bright blue eyes and curly hair. Frequently giving his nieces and nephews gifts on special holidays. Tommy talked a lot when there was someone to listen and I can remember one lunch time parked at the corner of 12^th and Chester talking for half an hour about something before I got a chance to mention some charitable ideas I had. He always came through with a smile.

And he did a give a lot of money to the Cleveland Sight Center.  There is a plaque there at 101st and Chester that bears his name. He was generously involved in the Hebrew Free Loan and other charities. It is said that on the way home from work he would often stop by the site of many of his beneficiaries to see if all was going well.

His funeral was well attended in the Mausoleum at Mayfield Cemetery. It was so cold that the radiators stated banging during the service, as if someone out there was trying to protest the Rabbi’s words. And then they buried him in the cold wet mud of a Cleveland winter.

I started to wonder: ”What’s it all about, Tommy?”

Is there any meaning in the lonely childless life...that ended with jumping rope and getting ripped off?

Certainly his charitable instincts, regardless of his motive, have done good work that continues well beyond his death.

And it is said that in the light of a full moon, the shadow of a little man with twinkling eyes and a broad smile can be seen merrily jumping rope in the parking lot of the Sight Center or the Jewish Federation.

As if to tell the world, in his own unusual way, that his life had meant something after all.

  

Our Dicey Encounter with the Egyptian Army

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A month or so before our Swan Cruise ship slipped into the vast harbor of Alexandria, a gang of Islamic extremists had invaded the resort area not far from the pyramids and killed a number of tourists. Germans, as I recall. The idea was to break the back of Egypt’s then highly successful and lucrative tourism industry in an attempt to weaken and then overthrow the dictatorship of Mubarak.

We even got a call from our travel agent telling us that we could opt out of the trip, if we wished, with no penalty.  But they noted that the US State Department had issued no formal warning. So we decided to live dangerously.  So did most everyone one else in the hundred or so of the roster, who, it turned out, were primarily classic, stoic Brits. Even though the British government had issued an alert, cautioning its people about the hazards of traveling in Egypt, these hardy folks weren’t about to be intimidated by a bunch of radical Muslim Arabs blowing up places. 

So we all sailed out of Athens on this 18-day tour of a lifetime into Mediterranean history, complete with books and lectures. We had pretty much forgotten the mayhem at the pyramids, until our last port of call. As we marched down the gangplank at Alexandria, it seemed as though we had entered another world, another century. Half-naked men wearing only loincloths sitting crossed legged, smoking pipes and selling stuff. Women in full religious garb. And in the midst of it all was this modern truck loaded with teenagers all in the uniform of the Egyptian army. They, presumably, were to be our protectors.  Perhaps personally sent by Mubarak. Each was armed with a rifle. Many of them seemed confused about how to hold their weapon, or, God forbid, use one. They, a bakers dozen of youngsters in khaki, were to be our constant companions during our stay in their homeland. To guard us from the terrorists.

While waiting for something to happen, they were mostly directing traffic away from us. But their presence made a difference. We felt relatively secure in this strange, embattled land. People moved out of their way. Cars dodged us. I wasn’t sure who was in charge but the uniforms helped keep order.

And it worked pretty well. They protected us as we visited the great museums in Cairo, had lunch at the Hilton, and so on.

Then we headed out to the pyramids. Everyone posed for pictures on a camel, climbed around the religious relics, bought souvenirs. Did all the pyramids things. At dusk we were told to get back on the buses and head to the ship in Alexandria. “So far so good'" said one of my Brit friends and we headed north. As darkness fell and we were speeding past those so “terrorist ridden” resorts, I heard a cracking sound near the bus ahead of us.

“What was that?!,” said someone. “Was it a shot?”

My God, I thought, is this my worst nightmare coming true?

The stoic British couple started talking about the long, happy life they had lived together. My thoughts were a little more desperate. I ran to our driver.

”The troops, the soldiers, where are are they?,” I asked our driver, who had pulled up behind the stopped bus ahead.

“They went back to the barracks for supper. They don’t work nights”. My heart palpitated.  Here we were in the blackness of this road to Alexandria, naked of any protection.

“It’s okay,” The driver said in broken English. 

“The first bus has engine trouble and is backfiring.  We’ve called for help and they’re on the way.”

We sat there for about an hour, and then we were on our way again to the Alexandria harbor and then on to the fresh air and sanctity of the Mediterranean Sea, wondering whether the soldiers, our so-called protectors, had a good dinner and were tucked into their beds by their drill sergeant.

I can’t help but wonder what these, “boys”, (our protectors) are up to now, as revolution, mass murder and mayhem prevail in that once magnificent Land Of the Pharaohs.   

Saying Kaddish for Grace

We were talking about Grace, my wife of 47 years who died seven years ago last April. It was a broad ranging discussion about this very special human being when he unexpectedly snapped the question.
“But Did You Love Her”?
I stopped short, stunned and a bit surprised. Didn’t expect it.
"Did I what?," I stammered.
“Grace, your wife, did you LOVE her?”
Funny. I had to think about that. My mind whirled a bit. It’s a lifetime, we’re talking about. There were the ups and downs that come with the territory. But for 47 years, we shared our home, shared our bed, she cooked for me…took care of me when I was sick, cheered me after tough days at the office. She did the laundry. Did the shopping, helped with the bills, kept the check book. Shared our love for our little girl… raised her sent her off to school and then to college.
A woman ahead of her time, she got her Masters, worked as a high school guidance counselor in poor, rough neighborhoods. And later as a volunteer counselor to released offenders who were eligible for community service jobs.
She loved the work and from what I know, this little woman was respected by those huge guys getting her help in staying out of jail.
But that’s a different kind of love. More like respect, admiration.
Did you really love her? He was persistent. When she got sick with a fatal chronic lung disease, she was tethered to an oxygen canister that she couldn’t live without. It was awkward. Heavy. Yet that gutsy little gal pulled that device around for more than three years to that job downtown on the seventh floor of the county sheriff’s building three days a week. There were days when she couldn't drive and I picked her up.
I watched this brave little gal, walking out the door with a broad smile on her face...talking with sensitivity and enthusiasm telling about these parolees she was helping.
The day before she died was a relatively good day. She had shopped in the nursing home store, sat in the dining room with a bevy of friends and our daughter. I had left early that day and called her from our daughter’s house. We talked for a short time about the Cavaliers in the playoffs. About LeBron James.
And just before we hung up Grace said "Bud, I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I responded, fully expecting to be with her the next morning.
At 2:00 am she died.
Did I love her? Did I really love her? Of course I did…
And by the way, thanks for asking.
For nearly half a century, Grace, this tough, tender little lady, was my wife, my life that we shared together. Maybe we didn’t talk about it enough. Maybe we were too busy dealing with the vicissitudes of life. Whatever it was, thanks for asking.
On the chilly December day before I left Cleveland for Texas, I stopped by her little gravesite in Mayfield Cemetery to place a couple of small stones on her marker, as is our custom. Took a deep breath and repeated quietly the words etched in the marble.
Simple words:
“As long as we live you too will live, as we remember you.” I swallowed hard and once again said good night.
And murmured loud enough for her to hear,
“I love you, really. And I always will."

Musings of a New Father - 1961