Blog Readership Spreads, a Poem and a Reminiscence

Jackspotpourri Goes International

Before we get on to two delightful contributions from Sid Bolotin and Suzanne Wertheim, a word about this blog:

Don’t ask me for an explanation for this, but as of late last Sunday afternoon, March 6, the preceding seven days saw 63 people sign on to this blog.  Forty-six of them were from the United States, six from the United Kingdom, four from Japan, two from Slovenia and one each from China, Germany, Iran, Russia and Canada. (I have the capability of getting this information.)

I attribute this to the piece I posted on February 27 about the social significance of Billy Joel.  Apparently, if one did a Google search about Billy Joel and also plugged in the words social significance at the same time, for a few days Google was listing this blog as the very first URL on the very first page of their listings.  (It’s now back on the fourth page.) Resultantly, some Joel fans from all over the world must have checked out the blog. Or maybe it’s just a matter of the folks in Ljubljana or Teheran becoming interested in buying a Cascade Lakes resale, even though we don't have a cafe and we're not rushing to refurbish our clubhouse.

So, friends, when you submit something for inclusion on this blog, as I constantly am beseeching you to do, be aware that your exposure will stretch far beyond this community.  Like the song they play at Disney World and which Michael Jackson sang, “We Are the World.” 

JL

And here's a poem from Sid:

 I REMEMBER

 Sid Bolotin

A seven mile bike ride from the city, from his triple-decker tenement

Then a hike along the dirt road circling the lake

Walking his old, second-hand bike

A blue, red-rimmed Iver Johnson with tubeless tires

Finally a struggle through the undergrowth of the secret, almost hidden trail

To burst thru the underbrush at the water’s edge

After skip-hopping across twenty-some rocks to reach his goal

The young boy once again nestles in the hollow atop the massive boulder

Fishing pole beside him, bobber cast accurately

To where the larger Sunfish lurk

Ripples on the lake’s vast expanse glinting in the sun

Munching on his usual lettuce-tomato-cucumber sandwich

Once again he’s left his life behind

To be in his Shangri-La, his Paridise

 ***       ***      ***      ***      ***

And here's a reminiscence from Suzanne:


FALLING NOODLES

Remembering Passover with My Mother

Suzanne J Wertheim

On the day of the first Passover Seder a number of years ago, I took my mother to lunch at the local Jewish deli.  Wanting to give her a semblance of the traditional meal we shared many times before, this substitute for an evening Seder seemed to be a possibility.   It was the best I could do to allay my guilt when I would go without her later.

With almost certainty, I knew she would be unaware it was a holiday and my hope to treat her might not succeed.  Due to Alzheimer’s disease, she was disoriented to time and thus had no awareness of the date.  She admitted her ignorance of the occasion in the self-deprecating manner she often displayed.  She said, “I’m so dopey, I don’t even know it’s a holiday.” 

I fluffed her hair, put on her lipstick and she gave a brief approving look in the mirror.  Assuring her that we would come back later, she agreed to go.  Holding her fragile hand as if walking with a small child, I led Ma out of the assisted living facility and into my car.

At the passenger door, she asked, “Is this a new car?”

It was eight years old and she rode in it countless times.  Each time she lowered her shrunken and ache-ridden body to the low seat, I marveled at her remaining agility, despite a slowed and shuffling gait. 

“We’re riding so long,” she said.  Then, with mounting anxiety, she added, “Don’t take me any more.”  Ten minutes’ ride seemed longer to her.  Annoyance with how far we traveled set the tone of the outing.  My eagerness to provide a change of scenery and a traditional holiday menu was dashed by these words.

Seated immediately in a corner booth at 11:45 a.m., encouraged me to think we had the best possible circumstance for this special event.  Not so.  Wait staff didn’t appear quickly with extra napkins.  Unhappy with that, the negativity began.  Wearing a plastic apron to catch falling noodles, she consumed a bowl of matzo ball soup, but refused to touch the appetizer-portion of gefilte fish and could not even bite a piece of matzo because her dentures were hurting.  Satiated with just the liquid course, she was worn out from the experience.  Her eyelids were getting heavy.

However, as I continued to eat, Mother raised her head and the tired expression changed to a smile as she looked across the table into my eyes.

“You look very pretty,” she said.  Her awareness of my appearance stunned me.

I walked back into my mother’s “home” eager to relate the incident to the receptionist.  I could not hold back the tears as the word “pretty” left my mouth.