When I was nine years old, I came home from school and discovered that my family had moved.
It was December 6, 1968, and I was in the fourth grade at East Prairie School in Skokie. I had known in theory that we were planning to move and that I would be attending a different school, but I'm sure my parents were trying to keep everything "normal" so I wouldn't get too anxious. I kept going to Girl Scouts, taking piano lessons and doing my homework. Late in the afternoon of December 6, while everyone in my class was completing a math assignment on the times tables, Miss Pawlkowski told me to return my books to the library. It was the first time it occurred to me that I wasn't coming back.
I got on the bus as usual at the end of the day without much fanfare and rode to my stop at the corner of Brummel and Kenneth. I got off the bus and walked to my house, expecting to see my parents packed and waiting for me. But when I arrived at my house, the shades were all the way up and I could see straight through the house into the backyard. It was empty.
I tried the door but it was locked. I rang the doorbell over and over, not quite sure what else to do.
It was cold, getting dark, and I was hungry. All I had was a box of 64 crayons, some pencils without erasers, and a folder full of spelling tests.
I walked down to my friend Donna Jean Pelican's house and asked her if she wanted to play. I was hoping my mother had left a message with her mother, but Mrs. Pelican had seen the moving van drive away earlier in the day and was clearly a little freaked out to see me.
Their Christmas tree was up, and it looked beautiful. There were ornaments and gifts everywhere, and it was the opposite of my sad house down the block. We played with Donna Jean's Barbies under the tree until it got dark. I could smell her dinner in the oven, and I could see her mother pacing around the house, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette.
I was fairly certain that my family would eventually find me, but I was wearing out my welcome at Donna Jean's. I considered going to another neighbor's house, but I was pretty certain my parents would come looking for me at the Pelicans first. I didn't know what to do, and I started to cry.
That made Donna Jean start to cry, and I thought Mrs. Pelican might cry too.
Finally the doorbell rang and my father walked in. I ran to him as if we had been separated for years, rather than having kissed him goodbye just that morning. He was sure my mother had told me to wait for him at school, as they had not wanted me to see the empty house (oops!) But in the confusion of moving day, it had evidently slipped my mother's mind--I was not the sort of girl who would have forgotten. My father had searched the school, and then started going to my friends' homes.
We hightailed it out of the Pelicans, and started the drive to Northbrook in rush hour traffic. It took a long time to get to my new house which made it seem even further away than it was. I remember when we got there, my mother said, "Did you think we left without you?" as if it were a joke. But I was mad at her--I mean, they DID leave without me! And frankly, I think I turned out shockingly well-adjusted under the circumstances.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Monday, July 22, 2013
And Then We Got Married and Lived Happily Ever After
It was the Fourth of July, 1986, and my fiancé Joel and I were driving in sizzling silence to The Christmas Inn in Aspen, Colorado. We had spent a week camping in the mountains, and it had not gone well. I'd never camped before, or by the way, since. But we were young and in love, and Joel had some idea that if I'd just brush my teeth in the rushing water of a sparkling stream, I'd morph from the city girl I was into a nature girl.
I was not actually a city girl--city girl implies some spunky toughness, some moxie, that in 1986 I absolutely did not have. I was the girl who fretted about surviving the week without a blow dryer. I was soft and spoiled, the most inexperienced sort of girl--I was a suburban girl.
The trip was cursed from the start. We'd flown to Denver with all our camping gear, which took a detour and did not arrive in Denver with us. We slept in an airport hotel overnight, and I was secretly pleased. If we'd been married already, I could have been outwardly pleased, but of course if we were married already I wouldn't have been on a camping trip. The camping equipment arrived the next day, and we headed out of the city in our rental car.
I'd never seen the mountains before, and I was temporarily stunned out of my peevishness by their beauty. That first night we set up our tent, our stove and all our equipment, got cozy in our sleeping bags under the stars, and enjoyed our one successful night in the wilderness.
The next morning Joel could not stand up. His back had gone out from sleeping on the hard ground. If we wanted to eat, it was up to me. I gritted my teeth, gathered the wood, started the fire, made the food, broke down the tent, and loaded the car. Joel was of course just well enough to provide detailed instructions as to exactly how each of these things should be done correctly.
Instead of heading straight home, Joel convinced me that he would surely improve the next day, and we should continue to our next campsite. He was wrong. He remained physically incapacitated all week long, and my main goal each day was to try not to murder him. I came close, but realized that with my very limited map reading skills I could not get back to civilization myself.
It got so cold that I had to wear all my clothes. I lost my hairbrush on Day Four. Without a proper shower, I had devolved from the intriguing nature girl into something far more primal. After a week of 24-hour togetherness and no other human contact, we had discovered everything there was to know about each other. If we'd come home and revealed each other's secrets, no one would have blamed us for canceling the wedding. In retrospect, however, I can think of no better preparation for a long marriage.
To end the trip we had splurged and made reservations at a hotel in Aspen for the July 4th weekend. The Christmas Inn marked our return to civilization, and we hoped, our return to civil relations. It was not a fancy hotel, but we were counting on the luxuries we'd find there to save our relationship: hot water, soap, and razor blades.
But when we arrived at The Christmas Inn, they could not find our reservation. A manager was summoned who said, "Mr. Solomon, we were expecting you last weekend!" Joel dug out his mangled confirmation from the glove box and saw that he had indeed reserved the room for the wrong days. I have never understood how he got the date wrong--it's called the Fourth of July. We had arrived in Aspen for the holiday weekend, and there was (I have to say it) No Room at the Inn.
I won't pretend that I didn't behave badly. After a week of digging a hole in which to defecate, I was not myself. Joel, to his credit, recognized the severity of the situation. He asked the manager at The Christmas Inn if he thought anyone in town had a room. The manager assured us that Aspen had been sold out for weeks, but perhaps there was something in Snowmass, the next town over. He helped us locate a granite countered condo. Joel was in no position to object to the price.
Joel and I enjoyed a fabulous weekend eating at trendy restaurants and attending the Aspen Music Festival. We watched the fireworks in the mountains, and we rubbed elbows with various A-list celebrities who summered in Aspen. It didn't take me more than a few years to forgive him.
I was not actually a city girl--city girl implies some spunky toughness, some moxie, that in 1986 I absolutely did not have. I was the girl who fretted about surviving the week without a blow dryer. I was soft and spoiled, the most inexperienced sort of girl--I was a suburban girl.
The trip was cursed from the start. We'd flown to Denver with all our camping gear, which took a detour and did not arrive in Denver with us. We slept in an airport hotel overnight, and I was secretly pleased. If we'd been married already, I could have been outwardly pleased, but of course if we were married already I wouldn't have been on a camping trip. The camping equipment arrived the next day, and we headed out of the city in our rental car.
I'd never seen the mountains before, and I was temporarily stunned out of my peevishness by their beauty. That first night we set up our tent, our stove and all our equipment, got cozy in our sleeping bags under the stars, and enjoyed our one successful night in the wilderness.
The next morning Joel could not stand up. His back had gone out from sleeping on the hard ground. If we wanted to eat, it was up to me. I gritted my teeth, gathered the wood, started the fire, made the food, broke down the tent, and loaded the car. Joel was of course just well enough to provide detailed instructions as to exactly how each of these things should be done correctly.
Instead of heading straight home, Joel convinced me that he would surely improve the next day, and we should continue to our next campsite. He was wrong. He remained physically incapacitated all week long, and my main goal each day was to try not to murder him. I came close, but realized that with my very limited map reading skills I could not get back to civilization myself.
It got so cold that I had to wear all my clothes. I lost my hairbrush on Day Four. Without a proper shower, I had devolved from the intriguing nature girl into something far more primal. After a week of 24-hour togetherness and no other human contact, we had discovered everything there was to know about each other. If we'd come home and revealed each other's secrets, no one would have blamed us for canceling the wedding. In retrospect, however, I can think of no better preparation for a long marriage.
To end the trip we had splurged and made reservations at a hotel in Aspen for the July 4th weekend. The Christmas Inn marked our return to civilization, and we hoped, our return to civil relations. It was not a fancy hotel, but we were counting on the luxuries we'd find there to save our relationship: hot water, soap, and razor blades.
But when we arrived at The Christmas Inn, they could not find our reservation. A manager was summoned who said, "Mr. Solomon, we were expecting you last weekend!" Joel dug out his mangled confirmation from the glove box and saw that he had indeed reserved the room for the wrong days. I have never understood how he got the date wrong--it's called the Fourth of July. We had arrived in Aspen for the holiday weekend, and there was (I have to say it) No Room at the Inn.
I won't pretend that I didn't behave badly. After a week of digging a hole in which to defecate, I was not myself. Joel, to his credit, recognized the severity of the situation. He asked the manager at The Christmas Inn if he thought anyone in town had a room. The manager assured us that Aspen had been sold out for weeks, but perhaps there was something in Snowmass, the next town over. He helped us locate a granite countered condo. Joel was in no position to object to the price.
Joel and I enjoyed a fabulous weekend eating at trendy restaurants and attending the Aspen Music Festival. We watched the fireworks in the mountains, and we rubbed elbows with various A-list celebrities who summered in Aspen. It didn't take me more than a few years to forgive him.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Dinner Conversation
Every afternoon around 5:00 it hits me. It's like remembering I have a math test in an hour but not enough time to study. You'd think I'd get better at planning after all these years, but I don't. It's a bad, recurring nightmare, every single evening: DINNER! AGAIN!
I'm sick and tired of my own cooking. When I look through recipes for inspiration, I always feel like a domestic dolt. A lot of my friends are devotees of the cooking shows on television, but I can't say it's improved anyone's repertoire. We seem to like watching other people cook more than cooking ourselves. The recipes looks delicious, but I am too lazy to make them. I want a recipe that has less than five ingredients and no more than five steps, and one of the steps should be, "Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes."
I know it was not always this way. In my well worn copy of The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook given to me by a dear friend, she inscribes, "To one of the best cooks in the business." I think my talent was beaten out of me by overuse. I'm like Nolan Ryan's pitching arm. Okay, I was never Nolan Ryan, but I was better than I am now.
This is not to say that I am necessarily a bad cook. I have eight or nine regulars, and another five or six specials, and another dozen easy fill ins. I have one or two things that my children actually request, although they always first ask if we can order Lou Malnati's.
My husband is a good sport about it. He's appreciative after every meal. We have a standing joke, that everything I make is in "my top three." But once he remarked that my fill in tacos (ground beef, package of seasoning and El Paso shells) was in my top three, and his rating system has been suspect ever since.
Given the amount of time and energy I devote to it, I was surprised to realize I've hardly mentioned the topic of cooking in my writing. I found one essay about a mediocre meal I made for the night before Yom Kippur, and another essay explaining how I gave myself food poisoning.
Luckily, my husband is a great cook, although he does make some mistakes--he thinks of recipes as "suggestions." He likes to cook a big dinner on Sunday night and I am always enthusiastic.
Whenever possible, I give his favorite compliment. Long ago I learned what he considered to be the highest praise: "Do you know how much we'd pay for this in a New York restaurant?"
I'm sick and tired of my own cooking. When I look through recipes for inspiration, I always feel like a domestic dolt. A lot of my friends are devotees of the cooking shows on television, but I can't say it's improved anyone's repertoire. We seem to like watching other people cook more than cooking ourselves. The recipes looks delicious, but I am too lazy to make them. I want a recipe that has less than five ingredients and no more than five steps, and one of the steps should be, "Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes."
I know it was not always this way. In my well worn copy of The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook given to me by a dear friend, she inscribes, "To one of the best cooks in the business." I think my talent was beaten out of me by overuse. I'm like Nolan Ryan's pitching arm. Okay, I was never Nolan Ryan, but I was better than I am now.
This is not to say that I am necessarily a bad cook. I have eight or nine regulars, and another five or six specials, and another dozen easy fill ins. I have one or two things that my children actually request, although they always first ask if we can order Lou Malnati's.
My husband is a good sport about it. He's appreciative after every meal. We have a standing joke, that everything I make is in "my top three." But once he remarked that my fill in tacos (ground beef, package of seasoning and El Paso shells) was in my top three, and his rating system has been suspect ever since.
Given the amount of time and energy I devote to it, I was surprised to realize I've hardly mentioned the topic of cooking in my writing. I found one essay about a mediocre meal I made for the night before Yom Kippur, and another essay explaining how I gave myself food poisoning.
Luckily, my husband is a great cook, although he does make some mistakes--he thinks of recipes as "suggestions." He likes to cook a big dinner on Sunday night and I am always enthusiastic.
Whenever possible, I give his favorite compliment. Long ago I learned what he considered to be the highest praise: "Do you know how much we'd pay for this in a New York restaurant?"
Monday, July 8, 2013
Going to the Other Side
After more than a quarter century of sharing a bed, my husband and I decided to switch sides.
I don't know how I first wound up on the right side, and I don't think I paid much attention to it in the beginning. But after our son was born, the number of steps to the baby's room at midnight, 2:00, 3:00 and 4:00 seemed to add up. The right side of the bed was closer to his room, and that was some small victory.
When we moved to Wilmette, I once again chose the side closer to the children, knowing by then that no one cries, "Daddy" when they are vomiting at 3 a.m.
I liked my side. In addition to being closer to the door, it was also closer to the bathroom. I could snuggle up into the crook of my husband's arm and clearly see the television. We purchased a headboard that was called a "library bed," and I arranged Tolstoy, Austen and Sedaris right above my head, hoping some of their brilliance would infect my dreams.
But over the last year or so my husband has been a late night wanderer, getting up several times each night. As a lark I suggested we change sides. I didn't really mean it. It's like suggesting he become the mother and I'll be the father--I didn't think it could be done. My side is My Side.
But my husband wanted to try it. I wanted to back out, but I didn't have the facts on my side. There are no longer any children in this house crying in the night. Occasionally I open our bedroom door in the wee hours to see if our son, when home from college, has decided to visit his bed. But this is rare. My husband is up every single night.
We did not switch right away. I needed time to get emotionally prepared. It reminded me of when I was encouraging our son to give up his Binky. "You can do it!" I'd cheer. "Three more days til you give up your Binky!" Then, "Two more days!" And finally, "Today is the day!" As with the Binky intervention, only one of the parties was excited.
We did NOT switch our books and magazines to the other side, which would be the more permanent transfer of real estate. I prepared myself to sleep below a fat stack of golf magazines. Clearly my husband had been harboring the same hopes for magical improvement.
The first night on my new side I had a dream that I was lost on my block. I kept ringing every doorbell on Meadow Drive looking for my house, but I couldn't find it.
A significant problem we encountered was cuddling. I could not fit in my husband's crook and still see The Daily Show. My husband couldn't turn the other way because of a bad back, and so our usual spooning was out.
Each morning I asked my husband how he slept, not knowing what I wanted to hear. Of course I wanted him to have a better night's sleep, but a part of me (not a big part, well maybe a little big) was hoping there was no improvement, and I could go back to my old side.
This morning we made a final decision. My husband was not sleeping any better on my side which I found astonishing, because my side is so much cozier. He's going back to his old side where he will have to trudge the additional eight steps to the door. It's not exactly the Chicago Marathon. I actually think he's looking forward to it.
I can't wait.
I don't know how I first wound up on the right side, and I don't think I paid much attention to it in the beginning. But after our son was born, the number of steps to the baby's room at midnight, 2:00, 3:00 and 4:00 seemed to add up. The right side of the bed was closer to his room, and that was some small victory.
When we moved to Wilmette, I once again chose the side closer to the children, knowing by then that no one cries, "Daddy" when they are vomiting at 3 a.m.
I liked my side. In addition to being closer to the door, it was also closer to the bathroom. I could snuggle up into the crook of my husband's arm and clearly see the television. We purchased a headboard that was called a "library bed," and I arranged Tolstoy, Austen and Sedaris right above my head, hoping some of their brilliance would infect my dreams.
But over the last year or so my husband has been a late night wanderer, getting up several times each night. As a lark I suggested we change sides. I didn't really mean it. It's like suggesting he become the mother and I'll be the father--I didn't think it could be done. My side is My Side.
But my husband wanted to try it. I wanted to back out, but I didn't have the facts on my side. There are no longer any children in this house crying in the night. Occasionally I open our bedroom door in the wee hours to see if our son, when home from college, has decided to visit his bed. But this is rare. My husband is up every single night.
We did not switch right away. I needed time to get emotionally prepared. It reminded me of when I was encouraging our son to give up his Binky. "You can do it!" I'd cheer. "Three more days til you give up your Binky!" Then, "Two more days!" And finally, "Today is the day!" As with the Binky intervention, only one of the parties was excited.
We did NOT switch our books and magazines to the other side, which would be the more permanent transfer of real estate. I prepared myself to sleep below a fat stack of golf magazines. Clearly my husband had been harboring the same hopes for magical improvement.
The first night on my new side I had a dream that I was lost on my block. I kept ringing every doorbell on Meadow Drive looking for my house, but I couldn't find it.
A significant problem we encountered was cuddling. I could not fit in my husband's crook and still see The Daily Show. My husband couldn't turn the other way because of a bad back, and so our usual spooning was out.
Each morning I asked my husband how he slept, not knowing what I wanted to hear. Of course I wanted him to have a better night's sleep, but a part of me (not a big part, well maybe a little big) was hoping there was no improvement, and I could go back to my old side.
This morning we made a final decision. My husband was not sleeping any better on my side which I found astonishing, because my side is so much cozier. He's going back to his old side where he will have to trudge the additional eight steps to the door. It's not exactly the Chicago Marathon. I actually think he's looking forward to it.
I can't wait.
Monday, July 1, 2013
A Toast to Trousers
I'd like to take a moment to sing the praises of one of the great fashion innovations of all time. Sure, we all wore our share of bell bottoms and platform shoes, but those were just passing fancies. I'm talking about the one item that's in the front of your closet that goes with everything. You count on them week in and week out, in sickness and in health, til death do you part. Or maybe not. If I can only take one pair with me into the afterlife, I'm taking these:
Black Pants.
My black pants are the backbone of my wardrobe, always in style and working as hard as they can to do what I wouldn't even consider asking any other piece of clothing to do: make me look thin.
If you are like me, you have several pairs, in different fabrics and shortened for various heel lengths. And each pair is a different level of fancy.
My black jeans, the most casual, are my step up from blue jeans. Black jeans with a t-shirt for lunch with a friend. Black jeans with a sweater and cute boots for a movie with my husband. Black jeans are the answer when you think some women might be wearing blue jeans but you're not positive. Black jeans say,"I will make you look cute and casual but slightly upgraded."
Then we have the workhorse--all purpose black slacks hemmed for a short heel. I wear them with a blazer for a meeting or with a sweater to a play. They are board meeting pants, funeral pants, Friday night at Temple pants. They are practical, professional, can-do trousers. They get a lot of wear, but because they are black, never show it. These pants have been THE answer to the age old question, "What should I wear?" and are the MVP of my closet.
Finally, I have my dressy black pants. Full in the leg, these are the pants I go to put on when I suspect other women will be wearing a dress but it's too cold or I haven't shaved my legs. Full black pants and my green silk blouse have been my date at a dozen holiday parties. Black pants and my ruffled blouse have seen be through January Bar Mitzvah parties. Black pants and a sparkly sweater is my uniform on New Year's Eve.
I love my black pants. I don't think they get enough credit. Day after day, season after season, year after year. Who is always available and ready to go wherever I want to go? Who never makes my butt look big? Who let's me spill my coffee and not have to go home and change?
It's the James Brown of my wardrobe, the hardest working pants in the shmata business: Black Pants.
Black Pants.
My black pants are the backbone of my wardrobe, always in style and working as hard as they can to do what I wouldn't even consider asking any other piece of clothing to do: make me look thin.
If you are like me, you have several pairs, in different fabrics and shortened for various heel lengths. And each pair is a different level of fancy.
My black jeans, the most casual, are my step up from blue jeans. Black jeans with a t-shirt for lunch with a friend. Black jeans with a sweater and cute boots for a movie with my husband. Black jeans are the answer when you think some women might be wearing blue jeans but you're not positive. Black jeans say,"I will make you look cute and casual but slightly upgraded."
Then we have the workhorse--all purpose black slacks hemmed for a short heel. I wear them with a blazer for a meeting or with a sweater to a play. They are board meeting pants, funeral pants, Friday night at Temple pants. They are practical, professional, can-do trousers. They get a lot of wear, but because they are black, never show it. These pants have been THE answer to the age old question, "What should I wear?" and are the MVP of my closet.
Finally, I have my dressy black pants. Full in the leg, these are the pants I go to put on when I suspect other women will be wearing a dress but it's too cold or I haven't shaved my legs. Full black pants and my green silk blouse have been my date at a dozen holiday parties. Black pants and my ruffled blouse have seen be through January Bar Mitzvah parties. Black pants and a sparkly sweater is my uniform on New Year's Eve.
I love my black pants. I don't think they get enough credit. Day after day, season after season, year after year. Who is always available and ready to go wherever I want to go? Who never makes my butt look big? Who let's me spill my coffee and not have to go home and change?
It's the James Brown of my wardrobe, the hardest working pants in the shmata business: Black Pants.
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