Over and Under the Age of Thirty

I just read a blog about the largest group of bloggers being under the age of thirty. This reminds me of the time that hippies were all the rage and their mantra was, “Don’t trust anyone under the age of thirty.” Give me a break! Most of those hippies are called  baby boomers now and are the largest group of buyers in our economy. Marketers with all their statistics in hand seem to target this group especially, as well as the teenage/adolescent market, of course.  What is their thinking now that they are in their fifties?

Why am I so focused on the age of thirty? I also read they don’t seem to be interested in anything anyone over that age has to say. Please!! I’m wa-a-a-y over the age of thirty and still log in to listen to the chatter of obviously younger people. I want to know what is going on in this world.  It wouldn’t occur to me to ask, “How old are you?” before reading the blog. If the blog is about something I’m interested in, I read it.

I wonder how they would know how old I am. Perhpas it is because I never write about the latest rock concerts, or where I can get a tattoo, or who is selling three to four inch high heels. I know they must be black in color and preferably made of shiny satin material. I know I sometimes take off on a subject that is of interest to no more than a half dozen people, like post traumatic stress in children. Probably only the two or three writers I have read on the subject know anything about it. But I think it is interesting! I am probably in a fugue state when I think that it might be interesting to anyone else, especially someone under thirty.

I remember when I was under thirty I got excited when I learned something from someone more experienced than I. At the stage I am at now, I have experienced so much, lived through so much, learned so much about people, relationships, psychology, politics, history, etc., etc., etc., that I would think a lot of these younger people would be eager to hear what I have to say.

But I also know that the under thirty crowd does not want to hear it from me, or from anyone else “older than thirty” that seems to drop a gem of knowledge now and then. They want to learn it for themselves. They need to make all their own mistakes and come to their own conclusions by themselves. I know this. I was the same way at their age.

Post Traumatic Stress in Childhood

We’ve all learned about the post-traumatic stress syndrome. Usually it is associated with the military, that is with soldiers who have experienced such horrors that when they return home so damged, they are unable to function normally. If they are lucky, they are diagnosed and they may get psychiatric help with their condition.

Recently I came across an article on the web that used the terms “post traumatic stress in childhood.” I was so intrigued by that topic that I read most of the material written about it. I came to the conclusion that I should have used that term as a subtitle for my memoir, Becoming Alice. Unfortunately my book went into publication before I had ever heard this term, and I ended up using A Memoir instead. I thought that since Frank McCourt used that subtitle for his wonderful book, Angela’s Ashes, it was good enough for my book.

After reading the material on two sites, www.thedoctorwillseeyounow.com/content/art1964.html and also http://www.focuasas.com/PTSD.html, I realized that the disorder applied to me during my childhood and adolescent years. I was appalled to learn that in the US 16% of women (approx. 40 million) suffer some abuse in childhood before their 18th birthday. That abuse usually is in the form of rape or some other types of molestation, although it can be attributed to such things as emotional abuse, car accidents, etc. Symptoms include nightmares, flashbacks, impaired memory, social impairment, etc.

This information led me to conclude that I, as a child and adolescent, did suffer a form of PTSD. My trauma was not sexual abuse or a car accident, it was the fear of persecution and annialation by the Nazi regime in WWII. I did not understand it fully, but I saw what that threat did to my Jewish parents ,and I saw how it effected them for the two years we were stopped in Latvia with Hitler breathing down our heels . This fear filtered down me.

The above-mentioned articles listed the symptoms children with PTSD have. Among them are nightmares, flashbacks, impaired memory, social impairment, etc. If you recall the description in Becoming Alice of my reactions to seeing a Frankenstein movie and my terror at the swimming pool, you’d agree they were abnormal. Later on, my inability to function on my own in Los Angeles was symptomatic. And of course the social impairment described during the entire childhood and adolescent years not normal.

The articles point out that parents play a vital role in helping these children to heal from their trauma. In my case, my parents were so overburdened with their own problems, that they were not available to help me. I also think that at that time in history, most parents were not sopohisticated enough to understand that they should be concerned with their children’s problems.

I don’t know entirely how I took myself in hand and consciously tried to heal myself. A young girl who attended one of my presentations came up to me at the end of my session and asked me the same question, because she felt she shared some of my problems. I told her to read my book. I speak in detail about what I consciously decided to do and how I went about “becoming the Alice” that I am today.

For Your Information

WriterAdvice seeks flash fiction, memoir, and creative non-fiction that mesmerizes the reader in 750 words or less. DEADLINE: April 15, 2010. Entry fee: $10 per submission. First prize: $150. Former prizewinners are the judges. Complete guidelines, mailing address, and prizes at www.writeradvice.com

Automatic Love

I love dogs. Actually I love all animals, even the wild ones in Africa who kill prey in the most violent, horrible ways possible. But then they do have to eat and they do provide and protect their young. I can accept all that goes with the “survival of the fittest” and the balance that needs to be maintained in nature for all the species to survive. I should add that I don’t “love” snakes and reptiles and fish, although I can appreciate their beauty and the necessity of their existance in the survival chain for all species.

I also know there are many people who do not love dogs or cats, or any animal. That’s fine with me. But it led me to think about us human beings. Do all mothers and fathers automatically love their children? Unfortunately not. We have fathers who not only abandon their offspring and mates, but sometimes even abuse them. We have mothers who do the same thing. Although I’d like to think that happens in smaller numbers.

My cat purred the entire time she was in labor, delivering her four kittens. She purred when she nursed them, she protected them from any strangers and expressed her love for them by licking them whenever they were near. I thought that beautiful, natural, instinctual love was automatic with mothers of all living things.

However, I know of parents who seem to love one child and not another. Sometimes it is more love for one child, less for the other. What makes the difference? In Becoming Alice I wrote that I thought my mother preferred my brother over me, fully knowing that I was my father’s favorite. In later years, after my brother and I were in mid-life, the equation changed. My mother was disappointed by the relationship that evolved with my brother after his marriage. Her feelings for him diminished and grew for me. Perhaps the depth of feeling for your children is not automatic and genetic. Perhaps love is based on some other qualities, such as the physical appearance of the child, the sex of the child, the intelligence of the child, the nature ( dominant/submissive) of the child, etc. If all that comes into play, then love is not automatic and a newborn baby has to be pretty lucky to have the qualities necessary for his/her parents to be able to love him with all their heart.

The same thing goes for a man and a woman. It has been said, “I fell in love with her the minute I met her.” Another has said, “The more I saw of him and the more I got to know him, the more I grew to love him.” So many qualities come into play in the love beween man and woman, it couldn’t posibly be automatic. In fact it is quite a wonder that love happens at all. Those of us that can love are the luckiest of all!

About My Funeral

Aunt Miriam died yesterday. She was 100 years and six months old. One usually doesn’t count a half year but I remember an uncle of mine saying that people over seventy change yearly as much as a child under six changes every year. In those perameters, the changes are enormous. Maybe. Aunt Miriam seemed to be pretty much the same between the years seventy-five and ninety-five. She spent most of them in an assisted living facility and later in a nursing home. It wasn’t until the last year or so that she began failing. A pretty good run, I’d say. Since she had no children, it has fallen to my husband Bob to make arrangements for her burial. I know the Rabbi will want to know about her life so that he can make the appropriate remarks at the gravesite. That is what brings me to wonder what will be said.

I am reminded about being in a Rabbi’s study about a decade ago when Aunt Miriam’s sister died and we were called upon to tell him about her life. My husband and I  sat in our chairs and looked at one another trying to find something to say. We couldn’t think of anything that set her apart , some characteristic that made her unique, some interest she had that enhanced her life or one in which she could give to others. We could only say she was a “good and nice” person. She took care of her family and performed a homemaker’s tasks. Perhaps that is enough. In Aunt Miriam’s case we could add that she gave music lessons to children and worked to raise funds for the City of Hope. I liked that about her.

And then there was that other funeral I attended many years ago for an aunt of mine who was generally disliked by everyone who knew her. the Rabbi who spoke at her funeral didn’t know the first thing about her. However he eulogized her in glowing terms: “And now we lay to rest this noble soul, etc. etc.” It was then that my cousin looked at me and said, “Are we at the right funeral?”

All this makes me wonder what will be said at my funeral. I’d like to think they will be able to say more than that I was “nice” and I “played the piano.” I certainly hope that the attendants to my departure will not wonder if they are at the right funeral if anything complimentary is said. But then, I wouldn’t know about it anyway.

You Do It!

I love being with my granddaughter Emma any time but I especially enjoyed her when she was about five or six years old. The whole world was new and exciting for her and she was learning skills as fast as they came her way. When I was with her, no matter what I was doing, stirring gravy in a saucepan, planting marigolds in the yard, or buttoning her sweater for her, she’d shout, “I do it!” She’d push me away, her eyebrows drawn together on her forehead, with a determination to succeed that I wished would be there for a lifetime. She’s outgrown that phase now that she’s eleven. Yet, when the phone rings, she’ll snap to attention and shout, “I’ll get it!” Of course, I do understand that most of the time that call is from one of her friends who will end up talking to her for an hour.

Now imagine that my husband Bob and I are not visiting Emma who lives clear across the country in Connectiut, and we are alone watching TV in our house in California. The phone rings and we both say in unison, “You get it!” This happens more often than not: Bob will tell me we need to buy dog food at the pet store. I’ll respond, “You need to get it. Here’s the five dollar coupon for the pet store.” Or I’ll mention to Bob that we are out of orange juice for breakfast and he’ll say, “Pick it up when you do the grocery shopping.” If I say to Bob that perhaps we should call our friends the Jones (ficticious name) to see if Linda (ficticious name) is over her flu, he’ll reply, “You do it. You know them better than me.”

It reminds me so much of how it was in my home when I was a little girl. My dad always made my mom do all the telephoning. If the phone rang in the kitchen and he was standing right next to it, he still would call my mother, who may have been gardening in the farthest part of our yard from the house, to come answer the phone. One of the reasons for this was that he did not like patients to call him at home unless it was an emergency. It was up to my mom, who didn’t even have nurses training, to determine whether or not it was a medical emergency. I cannot count the number of arguments they had when she didn’t guess right.

If you’ve read my memoir, Becoming Alice, and had gotten to know my dad’s character, you would not be surprised to know that his order of “You do it!” was consistant with his behavior both at home and at the hospital in which he worked. It allowed him to feel superior to all others. He even carried this approach over to non-medical things. For example, he refused to carry any packages anywhere, no matter the circumstances. It was not unusual to see them walking down the street side by side with my mother carrying two heavy shopping bags, while he used both his free hands to light a cigarette. This happened often while they owned their grocery store, had no car, and needed to walk from the store to our apartment.

I must remember the next time the phone rings in my house to jump to my feet and answer the phone without saying, “Bob, can you get that?”

Murphy’s Law

I remember when I was a little girl, my mother said, “When things are going really well, and you are as happy as you can possibly be, watch out! Something bad will happen. The pendulum has got to switch from one side to the other in this life. If everything always went perfectly well, and you were always happy, you would be in paradise. And there is no paradise on this earth. So, you better not ever let yourself get too happy.”

I never thought much about her advise. Things happen in life and my way of living it is to accept whatever is thrown at you, digest it, and keep on going. My philosophy about life worked pretty well for me until a couple of weeks ago when my mother’s warnings came back to haunt me. You see, my youngest daughter who had been divorced for six years, after spending twenty years in a bad relationship, remarried. She had found a genuine “nice guy” who seems to appreciate her for who she is and loves her. My daughter feels the same way. The wedding was beautiful. The entire families on both sides were there. The day was warm with the sun shining on all celebrants. The happiness quotient was at its maximum.

“Watch out!” I heard my mother’s words in my head but went on about my business. Several days later I walked into my bedroom and found one corner of it flooded. I checked the other bedroom. The adjoining closet was flooded. The plaster walls in the area were wet. The carpeting was stained. We discovered that the water softener tank immediately outside the bedroom wall had been leaking for several days and in our absence (while we attended the wedding), the water came into our house. The water softener company was called, the “restorers” arrived with two huge fans and two humidifiers , one for each bedroom. They were set up to run for three days and nights. Each bedroom sounded like a 747 airplane was taking off a runway. With nowhere to sleep except on a small bed in a guest room, my husband and I spent three sleepless nights with the noice of two airplanes inside our house. My mother’s voice returned: “Something will happen.”

A day later, my husband and I purchased some storage units for our garage. We were told they were on sale that weekend, for only two days, at 25% off. What a bargain. We wasted no time in  ordering 4 units of varying sizes, to be assembled and delivered in a few days, between 11 am and 3 pm. At 3:30 pm I call the store, “What happened to my storage units?” I’m told the delivery truck broke down and they are sending another to pick up the items and bring them to our house. At 4:30 pm they are stuck a block away from our house, unable to drive their truck under an iron arch over the street to our house. The delivery men, very pleasant and apologetic prodeed to wheel the  units, almost a full block in distance to our house, only to find out that they have brought the wrong units.

My carpets are still stained. The floor boards are damaged beyond repair. We don’t have any of the storage units we purchsed. And it is going to rain for the entire week. My mother’s voice comes back again: “Don’t get too happy. Something will happen!”

If you’d read Becoming Alice, my memoir, you’d know that my mom was a German speaking Viennese lady and couldn’t possibly have know about Murphy’s law. I think Murphy must surely have been Irish.

I poured myself a glass of wine and heard my husband say, “I knew they wouldn’t get this order right.” I didn’t think they would get it wrong. It didn’t seem to require an advanced degree in Business Management to fill this order and transport it to our address. In retrospect, what I had forgotten was that I had been too happy at my daughters wedding.

Postscript to Nice or Nasty

Nasty worked. I received my sales report.

Nice or Nasty

I don’t know which I should be later this morning, nice or nasty. The adjuster is coming out to my house. What happened is this: While we were away from our house for a few days, the soft water tank, located outside our bedroom wall, leaked its water out and into two of our bedrooms, onto the carpeting. It not only soaked a good portion of the carpeting, but also the bedroom walls in that area. Our soft water company sent out another company which does restoration. A huge fan and dehumidifier were set up in both rooms to work for three days and nights, making the rooms uninhabitable. We are now left with a stained carpet and ruined floor molding. I do not dare think about the size of the electric bill we will receive next month, nor do I know about any mold that might have set in in the process.

At this very moment, the adjuster is on his way to set things right for us. And I am in the process of deciding my approach. If this would have happened to my Dad, you would know if you had read my memoir, Becoming Alice, that my Dad would have been on the attack, angry, demanding, and accusatory. My Mom would have been submissive, sweet, playing the role of the victim. How do I handle these situations?

I usually start out nice, stating my position and requesting service. If that doesn’t work I slide down the scale toward my Dad’s way of handling things. For example, I phone my doctor for an appointment that I think should be taken care of shortly. I am given a time two or three months down the line. When I complain, I achieve nothing. Then I go to the ultimate threat. I am terribly ill and if anything life threatening happens to me, it will be their fault. I get an appointment in two or three days.

My last confrontation was with the publisher of Becoming Alice. I had requested a comprehensive sales report from them on December 16th and was told it would take about three weeks for them to send it to me. Having received nothing in that amount of time, I called them. There had been no action on their part and my request hadn’t even been posted until a week after my phone call. I protested in a nice way. I was told to be patient … it would be sent. A week later I called again. After the same kind of back and forth with my publisher’s customer service,  I changed my approach to nasty. Told them that if I didn’t get that report within three days, I would post on all my social networking sites that I could never recomment my publisher to anyone since they did not support their authors in any way. Two days later, I received my report.

Now, I am ready to start what I am sure will be the same process. Start nice, but be ready to go into nasty, if necessary.

Good Christian Boys

I have a dear friend who made a remark yesterday that has rumbled around in my head ever since I heard it. I don’t know how to make peace with it. Let me tell you about it.

My friend was speaking about her husband’s sons and praising them for all the help they were giving their elderly and very ill father. They called often to see how he was feeling; they came to help at any time that he needed nursing care. They even offered financial help should it become necessary. My friend ended her repartee of these boys (men, really) by stating, “Yes, they have been wonderful. They are good Christian boys.” 

Why does that remark bother me so much? I know what she is saying is how much she appreciates them and their love for their father. But why does that make them good ”Christian” boys? Does that mean any other kind of boy is not praiseworthy. Am I only sensitive to that remark because I am Jewish? Does that remark imply that Jewish boys are not praiseworthy? How about Buddhist, Hindu, Moslem, or even atheist boys? Are they also excluded from the height of this praiseworthy fraternity?

I don’t think she would argue my point. I know her too well to put the label of bigot on her; I know she does not deserve that. I think only think that word Christian slipped out because there are still enough people in this world who actually think that it is both the only and best way to be a human being. I hope that will change in time.