Down for the Count

A leg cramp, a labradoodle, and an unexpected view of the world

As I compose this blog entry in my mind, I am lying on the laundry room floor, staring at the ceiling. Another leg cramp has brought me down, but unlike the one that brought so much levity to a room full of canasta-playing women, this one struck while I was alone, bending to move laundry from the washing machine into the dryer.

Barb, usually my savior in these situations, is away for most of the afternoon enjoying a “day of beauty.” With no one here to massage my leg, I know I’ll remain on this floor until the tightness eases enough for me to bend my knee and pull myself upright.

Cooper the labradoodle is scratching at the laundry room door. I keep it closed when I’m in here; otherwise a sock or T-shirt will be in his mouth before I can slam the washing machine shut. And if the dryer door is open, he’ll immediately claim a dryer ball, his favorite prize. Even if I let him in, there isn’t much he could do to help me, and I’d rather avoid having my face licked while immobilized on the floor.

Lying here gives me an unusual vantage point. I can see the dead bugs lining the glass dome of the overhead light fixture. Cleaning that just moved onto my to-do list, though I doubt I’ll feel much like climbing ladders today. I’ve always thought I did a good job cleaning the dryer’s lint trap, but from down here I can see a layer of lint collecting along the bottom edge of the dryer door. At least that’s something I can clean without getting up.

With my bottom on the floor and time on my hands, I dig my phone out of my pocket. I rarely listen to audiobooks at home, saving them for car rides and Cooper walks, but this seems like the appropriate time and place for my latest thriller. I rest the phone on my stomach and, without earbuds, turn up the volume enough for the hero’s murder investigation to echo through the laundry room.

Even with the novel going through my head, I wonder what caused today’s spasm. Was it yesterday’s first round of golf of the season? The stops and starts of eight games of pickleball this morning? Dehydration? Or did I simply twist the wrong way moving laundry from one machine to the other?

The pain is easing now. I can begin to flex. I’ll let Cooper in, press the start button on the dryer, and go on with my day.

All is well…until the next time.

Looking Back and Wishing All A Happy Holiday Season

A little while back my friend Rick handed me an old holiday card he had received from Barb and me years ago. “We were decluttering the house while we renovated, ” he said. “We came across years worth of your cards, and thought we should save at least one for you.”

I added the card to an orange folder I keep, a folder containing a somewhat incomplete roster of all the cards we have sent through the years. This morning, I added the 2023 edition and spent much of this dreary day looking back on all the old cards, as many past memories came my way. It was my personal TBTOAS (Throw Back Thursday on a Saturday.)

The collection begins with the very first picture holiday card we ever sent. In the photo, Barb, Michael, Laury, and I are enjoying an English Tea at a small shop on Vancouver Island. The kids, aged 7 and 5, daintily raise their cups, little fingers extended, bubbling over with sophistication. It is almost impossible to comprehend that in the photo on this year’s card, a card featuring the entire family at Disneyworld, both our kids are parents, and our grandkids are now 40% of the clan.

Where has the time gone? As I look through the cards, I see it in the many photos we have selected to send to our friends every December. Pictures from birthdays, from weddings, from marvelous vacations, and from everyday life. There are reminders of beloved pets that are no longer with us and a photo that stands as a memorial to our former home in Long Grove, the home in which the kids grew up and from which Barb was so reluctant to leave.

Along with the photo cards are many of the inserts we composed to send along to let everyone know how we were all doing. Those inserts were clearly forerunners to my blogs, with the same tenderness mixed with the same tiny bit of snark. Among my favorites: A letter to a “Dear Kitty” advice columnist in which our new kitten described the past year and asked why we had so much trouble naming her; a newspaper Special Edition announcing the various roles our family would play in the (first) Obama administration; a TV Guide page listing the astonishing TV shows the Raff’s were starring in that season. All fun things to write, and along with the photos wonderful to look back on.

I hope this holiday season is being kind to you all. For all of us, our personal lives and the world around us bring challenges, but to paraphrase the late Danny Thomas, “Give thanks for the good things in your life, and give support to those who need it most”

Happy Holidays from our family to yours.

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The Godfather Meets The Mouse

I’m deep into Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli, Mark Seal’s book detailing the perilous circumstances under which the first Godfather movie was produced. The telling of the story highlights the contentious relationship between Paramount Studio’s Robert Evans and the movie’s director Francis Ford Coppola. Casting issues (Is Marlon Brando washed up? Who the hell is Al Pacino?), financial issues, and Mob issues all played a part in the grueling challenge of making what was to become one of America’s favorite films.

There is nothing that could be more complex than the making of that award-winning movie. Nothing, that is except planning a family vacation to Orlando and the wonderful world of theme parks.

Think Coppola had a hard time figuring out his shooting schedule? Try scheduling a vacation week with three families, 6 adults, and 4 grandkids. We didn’t want a week that was likely to be too cold; we didn’t want a week that would be too rainy; we didn’t want a week that spring breakers would be mobbing the parks; we didn’t want a week that would mean pulling the kids out of too much school.

Finally, after some heads of the families had a sit-down (our families, NOT Mob families) we picked an appropriate week. Then, just as the production assistants for The Godfather had to scout out acceptable shooting locations, we had to investigate all accommodations within a 20-mile radius of the theme parks to find the right one. As mentioned a few months ago, we have found a rental house we can all agree to live in and with. Lots of theme-park-inspired bedrooms, a big kitchen, and a nice private pool. Not too shabby.

Also, we have managed to snag decent rates on a couple of SUVs. These days, that is as hard to do as finding a good horsehead. Though as Seinfeld would say, “National knows how to take a reservation, let’s see if they know how to keep a reservation.”

The automobiles may have been cheap, but now we come to the inevitable cost overruns. Filming the movie went way over budget, and it looks like our trip will as well.

For those of you who haven’t been at a theme park in a few decades, things have changed since your last visit. You no longer receive a book of A, B, C, and D ride coupons free with every admission ticket. Now the price of admission is only a start–and will do nothing other than put you at the end of very long lines for any attraction you want to experience.

To actually enjoy a theme park visit you must consider park-hopper plans and magic wand tickets and VIP tours. Want to ride the Hogwarts Express? You better have paid for same-day admission to both halves of Universal. Comparing and selecting from all the options is beyond the capabilities of even the most advanced artificial intelligence. My chatGPT program informed me it would rather destroy itself than plan the best route through Disney. All in all, a day at a theme park probably will cost us more than Diane Keaton earned for her entire role as Kay–or John Cazale as Fredo for that matter.

As we know, despite all the hardships, The Godfather was made. The Godfather 2 was made. Regrettably, even The Godfather 3 was made. If Hollywood can do that, we can successfully do a trip to Orlando, and have fun doing it. And if anyone tries to stop us, we’ll just make ’em an offer they can’t refuse.

It Is More Than DNA–A Book Helps Me Remember Mom

I never asked my mother the right questions. I knew the broad strokes of her early life, but never asked for the fine details, the people in her life who came and went, and most importantly, I never asked how she felt about the events and feelings that shaped her life.

I thought the window to learn those things had long closed. After all, Mom has been gone for a dozen years. Dead men or ladies tell no tales.

And then when looking for some photographs last week (the old-fashioned type of photographs, the printed kind,) I rediscovered something that gave me a sliver of insight into her life.

In 1998, when Michael and Laury were 14 and 12 years old, Barb gave my mother a book called Grandmother Remembers. The hardcover book is designed to fill with memories. Each page has a title such as “Our Family Tree” or “My Wedding Day.” Prompts on each page are followed by plenty of space for jotting down thoughts of the past. There is plenty of room for pictures as well.

I presume my mother spent hours and days diligently filling out the pages, recalling memories (in 1998 at age 79 she was still mentally sharp), and pulling out boxes of old pics. She reminisced over life in Vienna–her love of her parents. Her pride in her father’s job “dressed in a beautiful uniform greeting important guests on the railroad” shines from the page. She briefly touches on her ambition to be an infant nurse or to work on a kibbutz in Israel.

And there is mention of the arrival of Adolf Hitler–Mom doesn’t say much about him or the impositions on the Jewish community in Austria but comments that her whole family was fortunate to leave for England, and eventually America.

The following sections in the book provide more background to the stories I already know: being fixed up with my father, the wedding in front of a justice of the peace, the honeymoon at a relative’s home in Highland Park. Mom was proud of rising through the ranks to become a “comptometer” operator at the Spiegel, an early direct-marketing retailer.

And then “the kids.” Sadly, the memory book has no section that could be devoted to my sister, but there are plenty of memories of my childhood and teenage years. I can concur with some of Mom’s perceptions of those times, while others I might have put a slightly different spin on. We didn’t always see things the same way!

Courtship and marriage to Barb are focused on as the last section of the book begins. The grandchildren get their just due, as do memories of favorite recipes (Linzer torte,) favorite holidays (Valentines Day at Aunt Paula’s,) and favorite TV activities (watching travelogues and VCRing tennis matches for Dad.)

The memory book concludes with a look forward instead of back, with wishes for health and happiness for the family.

Written 12 years before she died and now reread 12 years after, Grandmother Remembers helps me feel closer to my mom. It brightens the image I have of her, reminding me that she was once a young woman with hopes and dreams. I hope it will also bring wonderful memories of Grandma to our children and someday introduce her to her great-grandchildren.

And kids, if there is anything you want to know about your parent’s past–ask away!

How Ba-Ba became Ba-Ba

I recently posted my portrait, drawn by my granddaughter H, as a new cover page on Facebook. After lots of positive feedback, I decided to repost the blog below from 2016.

What’s in a name? I blogged a while ago that I have never had a nickname. It is as glaring a deficit in my personal history as not having a tattoo would be for today’s millennials. Somehow, I have learned to live as “Les”. And my full name, “Lester”, has taken on a bit of a cache since Leicester City, F.C. won its remarkable 5000-1 championship in the British Premier League Football. Yes, “Leicester” is pronounced “Lester” (and “British Premier League Football” is pronounced “Soccer.”)

But now I have a special name! I have had it for several months, and like most special names it is one that no one could predict. What makes it super-special is that it came from my granddaughter H. I am proud to be Baa-Baa.

It is always fun to guess what children will call their grandparents. When H was a newborn, Barb and I played that game. Barb was hoping for “GlamMa”, defined by Urban Dictionary as “the new Grandma, a woman with a sense of self and style. ” Yes, that would fit Barb. I had no special preference, but we both agreed that we did not want to be Bubbie and Zaydie, names we still feel are a little too old school.

So how did I become Baa-Baa? Every Friday morning while Barb is babysitting for H the three of us spend a few minutes Face Timing. On one of those morning calls, I gave H an iPhone tour of my office, including the row of bobbleheads on a high shelf above my microscope. There was a one-armed Robin Ventura, a stern Carlton Fisk, Detroit Tiger star Miguel Cabrera, and even White Sox groundskeeper Roger Bossard. H was fascinated as I bounced their heads up and down. Soon all our Friday calls started with H calling out for the bobbleheads. “Baa-Baa, Baa-Baa” was her greeting to me. And that’s what I became. Not Robin, or Carlton, or Miggie–but I will take Baa-Baa any time.

As for Barb, both of H’s grandmas became Na-Na. But now that H is a little older and wants to differentiate between her two wonderful grandmothers, Barb has become Na-Na-Baa-Baa. It works!

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Fathers Day and Lee –The Dad I Hardly Knew

Fathers Day is near. Time for our annual homemade Margarita inspired blowout. Loads of fun, but a bittersweet day in a few ways. It is always a joy to be celebrating with Barb and our kids, with our extended families, and with our friends. But this will be the last time in our home of 26 years that I juice all those lemons and limes, make my simple syrup, let the tequila and triple sec flow. Yes, we will still be living here for the 4th of July, but that is not “our” holiday to host. This is truly a Fathers Day Farewell.

As happy as I am to be the father of two wonderful children, and a grandpa to two more, Fathers Day is also a time of sadness as I remember my dad. We share so many traits; our looks, our early morning energy, our preference for listening over talking. I miss his presence, but at least I know I had the chance to learn from him over many years.

I wish I could say I had the same opportunity with my father-in-law Lee. He was very different from my dad in so many ways. Dark complected, a salesman’s ability to put everyone at ease with his friendly patter, a sportsman who loved his new toys. His home would have the first microwave in the neighborhood, the first Pong game hooked up to a TV console, and the first (and only) remote controlled golf cart. With his best buddy Oscar he would roam the golf courses of the northern suburbs on weekend jaunts. I never heard a complaint, though I think he regretted turning down the opportunity to own a McDonald’s franchise in the early 60’s. It’s a pity he didn’t accept. I am sure he would invented the world’s first automated burger flipper.

I was absorbed with medical school and not much of a golfer, so I never got out on to a course with Lee. I figured the day would come. But after I had been dating Barb for a few months, Lee handed me a slip of paper with the words “Leukemic Reticuloendotheliosis” on it. He asked if I knew what it meant. It rang a bell in some recess of my anterior lobe. Through a little research (no Internet in 1978) I uncovered that it was an old name for a disease that had been renamed “Hairy Cell Leukemia.” Lee had been diagnosed a few years earlier, and after a visit to a specialist, was advised there was nothing to do for a disease that could be indolent or life threatening. And Lee felt and looked great.

Lee was in his glory at our wedding, “giving away” his princess to me, a young man that he was confident would be a lifelong partner for her. It was just a few months later that the diseased blood cells, now with a deadly aggressiveness, reappeared in his blood stream. He lapsed into coma quickly, ironically in the very hospital I was doing a student rotation and where the two grandchildren he would never know would be born. He woke into consciousness just once, giving me the details about his accountant and reminding me to have the family income tax filed on time. Were these the anxieties that filled his locked down brain?

Lee’s end came barely 6 months after our married life began, from a disease that soon became eminently treatable. If only one of his beloved toys had been a time machine that would have moved him ahead just a few years, to a time when effective therapy was available. That would make this Fathers Day would be so much sweeter. It couldn’t happen, didn’t happen, but I will be sure to drink an extra Margarita on Sunday — in honor of my dad, and in honor of Lee, the dad I barely got to know.

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