Poinsettia

I spent some time getting to know my mother last night. She's been gone for two years... really longer if you consider the slow, fading process of dementia. But last night,  I opened a box that contains the last few items I hadn't gotten around to sorting. Looking through her high school yearbooks, I spotted her quickly in some of the group photos. As anyone who knew her can attest, she was always a doer.

But it wasn't only my own mother I got to know.  It was all those other teenagers of 1946. World War II had just ended, and every single person was somehow affected. They'd lived through ration books, blackout curtains, and the loss of loved ones. My mom lost an entire branch of cousins in Poland in 1940, which was never really discussed.

Hollywood High School Poinsettia, 1946. Right at the beginning,  before all of the cheery optimism and sendoffs was a dedication page, honoring all of the alumni who had been lost in the war.

I share their names with you today and hope that you will honor them also.

Taking Steps

I search for those little smiles. The twinkle in her eye. The spark of mischief. The smirk that mimics my own. I see them so rarely, that I latch onto them whenever they appear.

My daughter has Crohn’s (or ulcerative colitis, depending upon which doctor we’re seeing). When I first heard the diagnosis, I didn’t know what it was. At that instant, I felt glad for something with a name. I thought they would give my daughter some medicine and make her better. That was three years ago, after months of stomach pains and running to the bathroom. Now, three years later, we’re not to the point of normal, but there is progress in the right direction. I feel hopeful.

As a mom, the guilt and unknowns and lack of being able to fix things are unbearable at times. I no longer sleep restfully. I feel angry with my daughter for not trying hard enough, and then I feel angry at myself for having that thought. I know this isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s not something she did or allowed to happen.

Or is it my fault? Is it the fault of genes? My DNA? The water, the environment, something I should have done better? When I look at photos of her as a little girl or as a hopeful teenager, full of expectations and dreams, my heart grieves for her and yearns for a do-over. If I could turn back the clock and change whatever it was that went wrong, I would. I would.

Right now, my daughter is considered to be in remission. She is going to the gym and swimming laps. She rides her bike. My daughter, an IronWoman, is setting small, reasonable goals for herself. I admire her perseverance. I try to bolster her mood and to keep my own fears and negativity to myself, but it’s hard sometimes.

When my daughter asked me to participate in the Take Stepsfor Crohn’s and Colitis fundraiser, I hesitated. I don’t want to see my daughter as a person with a disease, let alone with a disease with no cure. Maybe by sharing my own story along with hers, we can help to find her a cure.

The Mandarin

Blossoms. They greeted me like a welcome home gift.

Working in the front yard today, I discovered them almost by chance. I'd all but given up on ever seeing that little tree blossom again, but there they were. Small, fragrant blossoms.

My mom never really mastered the idea of nurturing her garden. It was especially challenging, living in the Mojave Desert. She saw her best successes with things that were allowed to grow wild and untamed like her Desert Willow and Palo Verde. She was especially proud of her occasional cactus blooms.

After my dad passed away, Mom moved into an apartment in the Central Valley where she shifted her gardening focus to tending a wild privet that had sprouted on her little patio. I tried to supplement her garden with things I thought could be contained and managed. A small tomato plant, a miniature rose, and, because she lived in the middle of miles and miles of citrus groves, I gifted her one year with a potted mandarin. By potted, I mean that I had bought her a nursery tree and a larger pot that I'd intended to plant it in, but she would never let me. She preferred it in the little confining pot that came from the nursery.

Over the next several years, whenever I would drive the 200 miles to visit my mother, I would first examine the mandarin on her front porch before I knocked on her door. I was at first amused and later alarmed at the struggles of this poor little tree. One year it spent most of it's time over-watered and sitting in a soggy puddle in it's pot. Another year, it was covered in little bugs that my mother insisted were citrus psyllid because she'd looked up citrus pests on the internet. I think they were aphids. I showed her that a blast of the hose would wash them away, and the tree made another recovery.

Then came the year of dryness. As I walked up to the door on one of my visits, I saw that the leaves were falling off, and the branches were dry and brittle. "You need to water your mandarin," I said as I walked in the door.

"I watered it yesterday," Mom said.

I argued with her and showed her the dryness of the soil and told her there was no way she could have watered it a day ago, but she insisted. It didn't make sense. Why would she lie? As this scene repeated itself a while later, I realized that it wasn't a lie.  It was dementia. In her mind, in her reality, she did water the mandarin yesterday.

Through her early stages of dementia, she would also sometimes drag the mandarin into her house if she thought it was going to be too cold outside. My attempts at reasoning with her ... at trying to explain to her that the porch next to her house was protected from frost ... were beyond her ability to comprehend. I established a new routine during my visits. I would check the mandarin before I got to the door, but I never questioned or accused. I would quietly water that mandarin when I visited, and I knew that my sister was doing the same. And we worried.

Mom's dementia deteriorated her mind to the point that we had no choice but to "kidnap" my mother and move her in with us. The mandarin came with us. I wanted her to have enough of her familiar belongings here to help her settle in and feel at home. I finally potted that little tree into a larger pot and placed it outside the large window for her to be able to see it from her place at the dining table. Like my mother, the mandarin rebelled at the move. It dropped it's leaves and refused to bloom, despite my own more experienced gardening efforts. My backyard has six citrus trees that give us amble fruit, but the mandarin sat sulking and forlorn.

Mom lived with us for only a few months, and then she spent the next two years in memory care. She died on 17 Adar (or March 4 according to the Gregorian calendar). I told people she'd died of Parkinson's Disease. The hospice nurse argued that conclusion because the saying goes that people don't die "of" Parkinson's Disease. They die "with" Parkinson's disease. The nurse and I came to a compromise. We agreed that my mother died because she stopped living.

After the memorial service, I ran away from home. It had been hard seeing my mom decline. It was emotionally exhausting to see her go from stubborn and independent to only vaguely present ... and then to not even there. The end was mercifully brief. The decisions. Family. Friends. Rabbis. And then it was over, and I ran away from home for almost two weeks.

I returned and decided to spend some time working in the yard. Something I've had little time to do lately. And there was the mandarin, adorned in blossoms, offering a promise for the future.

Lita Reid
3 Sivan 5690 - 17 Adar 5778
aleha ha-shalom

Holding Up the Spoon

As I bring the spoon up to her mouth, my own mouth instinctively opens, mentally coaxing her to open up. It's the same thing I did with my babies, only now I am feeding my mother. I've never felt so emotionally exhausted. I don't even care who sees me cry anymore. I don't.

Navigating the end-of-life journey is something that so many of my friends have been doing. We're the "sandwich" generation. It's what we do. My mother's decline has not been linear. It's a series of jagged degradations of physical and mental abilities. She's not merely slipping away. It's not neat. It's not tidy. And right now, it's not even peaceful.

My mother has Parkinson's Disease and related dementia, what is now referred to as Lewy Body Dementia. For years we'd been worried about her continued elevated level of crazy behavior. She's always lived by her own set of rules and within her own special reality, so it's hard to really determine when her normal crazy became dementia crazy.

We were powerless to step in and "help" because she was so resistant to the idea that she needed help. And she was tricky. So tricky that she kept her doctors and the DMV fooled into thinking she was okay, or at least not too bad.

It took until the point that we were literally able to kidnap her to get her into our care. And, only a few months later, we tricked her again and locked her up in memory care. That was the worst day of my life, by the way, tricking my mother and locking her up.

The goal and the mantra over the next two years was assuring that Mom was comfortable and content. And she was until only a few days ago.

That's when the screaming began. The screaming that makes me feel powerless. Is it pain? Is it fear? I'm the person who is supposed to be in control. If something needs to be done, I want to do it. To fix it. To make it right. I need my mother to tell me what's wrong so I can fix it.

After a day at the ER, looking for something to fix, it was obvious that we've reached the next stage. At the memory care facility, the staff often uses the term "part of the process." I don't know what else to call it. Dying, I guess.

Hospice has now set up shop in my mother's room. Everyone has been fantastically supportive. The staff of Sunrise of Sacramento, everyone at Kaiser, Blossom Ridge Home Health and Hospice, Rabbi Nancy. I have so many new phone numbers and names in my phone now of people who have met with me to provide guidance and comfort. After observing a flicker of awareness when I held up the phone for my brother to talk to her, I got the idea to seek out a rabbi. I am not religious myself, so it's not something that occurs to me. I don't know why, but I knew that I needed a rabbi for my mom, and I sought out a visit from Rabbi Nancy from Congregation Beth Shalom. I'd seen her once at Purim celebration. I knew that she would be wonderful. And she was. I asked her if she knew a prayer. This is a very stupid question to ask a rabbi. What I meant was, "Do you know the right prayer to comfort my mother?" This is also a stupid question to ask a rabbi. I plead emotional exhaustion.

Rabbi Nancy Wechsler went into my mother's room and sat by her bedside. She has a beautiful singing voice and got up close to my mother and comforted her with her beautifully offered prayers. Prayers that were familiar even to me. Prayers that comforted my mother and brought to her a look of serenity and peace. Prayers that made me feel close to my Jewishness. Prayers that I saw, by the look on my mother's face, made her feel close to her beloved parents and grandparents. I hope I can find a Rabbi Nancy when the time comes to have a memorial celebration in Los Angeles. Does she travel?

I'm taking it one day at a time. That's what everyone says to do. I continue to make plans for work and travel but always with the caveat that I don't know what tomorrow will bring. It may be the same. It may be different. I can't control that, but I can hold up that spoon and hope she opens her mouth.

Roxy Roo

I'm feeling heartbroken. We lost Roxy today.

When we left the house this morning, we debated leaving Roxy inside since we were expecting the yard guys to show up while we were gone. We went ahead and put her outside, knowing that she's been left with them previously and has seen them at our house every Tuesday for the 10 months she's been with us. Well, this time she bolted. Despite much effort to get her back by the yard guys, she was long gone.

Kelsey put out notices on Facebook and Nextdoor, Some very kind neighbors answered the call to action and started searching for her. Another neighbor saw Kelsey out looking and joined in the search. Sadly, Roxy found her way to one of the busiest intersections in town (over 1/2 mile away) and was hit by a car. Kelsey received a phone call right away, but there was nothing that could be done.

I was at work watching all of this unfold via my security cameras and text messages.

Roxy came to us emotionally scarred. She was afraid of cars, people, dogs, leashes, sudden noises. Kelsey spent hours and hours patiently working with this dog. Despite my resistance at the idea of having a dog, I had grown to love her happy greetings, and I was glad that she was becoming protective.

This weekend was the best weekend we'd spent with her ever. She had a great time up at Tahoe and played until she was exhausted.

This is the first time we've lost a dog who had not lived out a full life. I am absolutely heartbroken and full of "if onlys." If only any one thing had been different this morning. Just one.

Please hug your fur babies tonight and give them lots of love.

And thank you to all of the neighbors (both friends and strangers) who helped out.

That Numb Feeling

I'll just come right out and say it. Yesterday was a really sh*tty day. I spent the entire evening sitting around the house, barely able to think and feeling numb.

So often when I think about my dad, I feel anger and sadness and regret that he died so young and that my kids never got to know him or that he never got to see them grow up. But today, leaving the memory care home after visiting my mom, I was thinking about how awful it would have been for my dad to see her now. My brother and I showed Mom photos of her and Dad from when they were teenagers and so fresh and in love and looking ahead toward their futures. I'm sure this is not the type of future that anyone sees for themselves. I wish life were more like the movies where aging is so often simple and sweet and sometimes comical. Reality is hard. It's messy. Sometimes it's funny, but sometimes you have to try really really hard to see the funny.

We're all okay. Nothing drastic or dreadful happened. It's all part of the process. It's where we are at this time.

Things I'm grateful for today: my daughter, who has my back and can be very very calm and knows the right words to say, my brother with whom I am always honest and who never hesitates to say what's on his mind (okay, maybe he does that a little too much), and always my husband, even though he is far far away.

The Ultimate Sacrifice

On this Memorial Day I thank those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to protect our freedom.

What is Memorial Day? It is an ever-evolving holiday that began following the Civil War as “Decoration Day” as decreed by Logan’s General Order No. 11 (http://www.usmemorialday.org).

Over the years, the name was changed to Memorial Day. I’m sure a little research could dig up the reason, but to me, it just plain makes sense. We should be doing more remembering, more memorializing, than decorating. Of course, the “decorating” referred to in the original name was an admonishment to decorate the graves of those who served. The banners and buntings that pop up on homes and businesses are pretty, but that’s not what it’s about.

Memorial Day also evolved to encompass those who have died in all wars. A fact of life, a cost of freedom, that is sadly never-ending.

And Memorial Day has shifted about the calendar ever so slightly to land conveniently on a Monday. Convenient, not so much for those we are remembering, but for people to have a lovely 3-day weekend, a kick-off to summer (which is actually still three weeks away), a barbecue, a day that your boss pays you to not work.

In the past few years, I’ve noticed another evolving facet of Memorial Day, encouraged by the devotees of social networks, that I don’t particularly like, and that is combining the respect that we pay to our fallen soldiers to giving thanks to everyone who has ever served. Don’t get me wrong. I think we should give thanks to our veterans. I give thanks to them often, when I meet someone in uniform, when I encounter a friend I know has served, and on VETERANS Day, which is in November and not always conveniently on a Monday. By the way, Veterans Day is also the perfect occasion on which to honor veterans with a donation to Fisher House.

I personally have not had the misfortune of having a family member or loved one die in combat while protecting my freedom. I do have the fortune if living in the country where we have more freedom and liberty and safety than anywhere else on Earth. And for that, I thank the men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice to protect those freedoms.

Swim, Bike ... RUN

The medic was pouring ice cold water over me, barely even waiting for my permission. In a reversal of roles, my daughter Kelsey was hovering, telling me to go sit down in the shade. She told me later that I had looked pretty bad.

Only the afternoon before, when I announced to my husband (a nationally ranked Ironman) that I was going to race, I was mostly joking. But somehow after the words came out of my mouth, they became a decision. It was the afternoon before The 19^th Annual Granite Bay Triathlon, a sprint distance triathlon: .75-mile swim, 13-mile bike, 5-mile run. I knew that the bike would be no problem, but I swim only occasionally just 50 laps of a sparkling clean pool. And I don’t run.

So I sorted through my clothing options. An old one-piece bathing suit and scratched up goggles, a pair of bike shorts with minimal padding. My shoes that only ever see the inside of the gym. And my Rudy Project glasses. Those were essential. Kelsey offered to loan me a running visor, which I refused because I don’t usually run with a hat. I don’t run.

My husband reminded me that I don’t run. I really don’t. In fact, I hate running. I told him that all of that time on the boring elliptical trainer at the gym has got to count toward something. And to prove my point, I put on my shoes and ran a mile around the neighborhood. See? I can run!

The good thing about deciding the day before is that there wasn’t a lot of time for nerves to get in my way. My friend Kirby was racing for the first time also, and he doesn’t swim or bike. But he’s Kirby. Part of my motivation to race is to honor my daughter Kelsey. This race is hosted by TBF Racing. Kelsey is like some type of legend or best friend with these people. She has raced and won and volunteered and cheered with TBF for several years, and everyone out there knows and loves her. But right now, she is debilitated from Crohn’s Disease. She had gotten up out of bed that morning to cheer for Kirby and me. She mustered a happy face through her pain and discomfort. And all of her TBF friends were happy to see her out there. And around TBF I am known as Kelsey’s mom.

At the start of the race, the announcer asked how many people were racing for the first time. Quite a few of us raised our hands. I felt better, less of an imposter. Then we were off!! Another newbie and I had decided to start at the back of the heap. I thought through what little I knew about open-water swimming. Kelsey’s advice the night before was to alternate breathing right to left. And in between look ahead. That sounded reasonable, but when I swim at my gym. I have a side to hold onto whenever I want to stop and rest. In the lake there’s no side and no bottom to stand on. And this water was not sparkling clean. As I swam, I heard the woman behind me (yes, behind me) gasping.  The monitor on the kayak instinctively followed alongside her. I stopped and reminded her that he was there, but she stubbornly refused to stop to hang on.  I couldn’t see the buoy, so I followed the feet in front of me and tried not to get kicked. The only other swimming tip that I could recall was that in triathlon, you swim with your arms and save your legs for the run. I kept trying to remind myself to save my legs, but when I was as far away from shore as I’ve ever been in my life, I was also thinking that I really wanted to make it back safely, and I didn’t want to hang onto the kayak.

At last the gooey shore was under my feet, and I ran through the swim finish. I high-fived the new girl who had started with me, as we got out of the water at the same time. The lake was low, so we had about ½-mile to trudge up the hill to get to our bike transition. I decided against running back to transition, thinking that I’d better save my legs for the run.

At bike transition I realized there were some details of triathlon I’d wished I had learned ahead of time. My feet were covered in sand, and now it was time to put on socks. I wished I’d packed extra water to clean them off. I brushed them off the best I could with my towel, got into my bike gear, had some water and a handful of peanuts and headed out. I’m not going to say that the bike was easy. It was relatively uneventful. I did drop my chain (which has been an annoying issue lately). And I learned something very interesting. One of the bicyclists stopped and asked if I needed help. How nice and unexpected that offer was! I was fine. I didn’t need help, but it was encouraging that he genuinely wanted to help. The one bit of bike advice I knew was to “spin.” Keep your bike in a lower gear and save your legs for the run.

On these sprint distance triathlons, you see all different shapes, sizes, and abilities. I have a pretty decent bike. There were plenty of cruiser bikes and racers with sneakers. I even saw some pedals with straps. Of course plenty of people were in it for the competition, but I’d say that most, like me, were in it for the experience. Ok, I’ll confess, I did make a point to power past a couple people on the bike.

Triathlon is a cruel sport. They make you do the worst thing last. Running. I don’t run.

I had already decided to run in my bike shorts and bathing suit. I know that I did not make much of a fashion statement, but it was the best choice with practically no time to prepare. And I did, after all, have my Rudy Projects. So all I had to do at the second transition was hang my bike on the rack and change shoes. Oh yes, take off the helmet. I only remembered that because of how many times Kelsey had mentioned it before the race. Take off the helmet.

I started off the run at a walk. Yes, I didn’t even run onto the course. I wanted to actually drink the water and Gatorade that were handed to me rather than wear them. I figured that I could probably run a mile before needing to walk. After all, I had proven to my husband just the night before that I could run a mile. And so I started to run. I planned to run to the 1-mile marker. Trail running is a lot different than the running that I don’t do in my neighborhood. It’s bumpy. And hilly. And hot. Well, maybe I wouldn’t run the whole first mile. I’d run most of it and then walk. Well, maybe I’ll run a little and walk a little. After a few rounds of running and walking, I hit the 1-mile marker. Really? Only a mile?? Maybe they hadn’t measured that one very well. Maybe I should have gone to the bathroom before I ran. But it’s only 5 miles. I’ll be fine.

As the run course went past the park area, I took one more look at the bathrooms. These were clean. I don’t want to stop at a porta potty. But, no, I’ll be fine, I thought. It’s less than 4 more miles. By this time, my cycles of running were becoming shorter, and walking was becoming longer. I was saving my legs for the last 2 miles.

There were people handing out water and more Gatorade. Kelsey had told me to stay hydrated, so I took both. At least I tried to. An issue with my spine makes it difficult for me to grab things with my right hand, so that first cup of Gatorade ended up spilling down my front. The volunteers handed me another. I drank the Gatorade and most of the water. I was sure there’d be another bathroom. I poured the rest of my water down my shoulders to cool down. I was hot. That hat would have been nice to have.

In triathlon, even though it’s a race, everyone is very supportive. The racers and staff and volunteers all want to see you accomplish your goals. My friend Nanc was volunteering by holding back traffic at an intersection. I made sure that I was running when I passed her. She called out to me, “Good job, Deborah.” I waved at her happily, appreciating her encouragement. As soon as I’d passed by, I was back to a walk. I was saving my legs for that last mile.

It’s amazing how much farther each mile looks on hills and dirt than it does in my neighborhood. Fewer and fewer people were behind me know. I wondered a couple times if there was anyone at all. I kept going, thinking that right around the corner, it would get easier and that maybe there’d be a portapotty.

Finally, I reach the last turnaround. There was Mark Davis, a TBF staffer cheering me on. He recognized me with “You’re Kelsey’s person” and followed along for several yards while detailing the remainder of the course. There was Nanc again. Waving and encouraging. I did not bother to smile or pretend to run. I waved back, but not the friendly kind of wave. I was saving my legs and my energy for the last ½ mile.

At last the bumpy trail smoothed out, and soon I was on the straightaway, the parking lot. This I should be able to run. But here was the bathroom. Yes! I would make a stop at the bathroom and then run the rest of the way in.

And so I did. The announcer said my name, and my husband and Kelsey and Kirby were all there waiting for me. And so was the medic. Apparently, I did not look too good when I got there, but I cooled down quickly. Kirby had finished a full 30 minutes before me. But he’s Kirby.

And so ended my first and ONLY triathlon. I finished. I was not last. But so many of my friends have offered their congratulations. People are talking about my accomplishment. I was congratulated again on Monday at the gym.

I’ll need to start running.

I'm Not Sorry

“I’m sorry.” The words wafted up to me through the mist of the steam room. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness, but I knew who was speaking. Apology Girl. That was the nickname I had privately assigned to this girl in the locker room who feels a need to apologize for occupying space, for breathing. I’d seen her a few times, conscientiously gathering her belongings closer to her and trying to will her body to take up less space on the bench.

As toddlers, as soon as we uttered our first words, our parents began teaching us to say, “Please” and “Thank you” and “I’m sorry.” I wish we still heard the first two more often, but why do we feel the need to apologize for existing?

With women in particular, the apology habit is more prevalent than with men. For some reason we are wired to feel guilt for not being perfect or for not always exceeding our own expectations.

Before class one night, our acting coach, Kathy McGraw, was leading a discussion about audition “Dos and Don’ts.” Never say, “I’m sorry,” she said. Even if you’re a little late, don’t call attention to it. Don’t apologize for asking for clarification. As an actor, this is your time to be seen. Don’t draw attention to your insecurities.

Despite the fact that I’d heard this advice many times, I was mortified to hear myself fall into this habit of self-doubt at an audition only a few days later. That talk also made me think of the girl in the locker room and how many times I’ve heard her apologize reflexively for utterly no reason at all.

I recently found it necessary to cancel a commitment I’d made on short notice because I was out of town caring for one of my grown children who has been very ill. I started to say that I was sorry but stopped myself. I don’t need to apologize for being a mother.

And when my daughter has apologized for uprooting me, I’ve assured her that she has no reason to apologize. I did, however, appreciate her “Thank you.”

The Deadbolt

The deadbolt wouldn’t latch. It was a door in my house that I didn’t usually use, but I was quite sure it had been secured when I’d opened it. I pushed harder with no luck. And then I pushed harder still. I didn’t have time for this. I braced myself against the opposing wall and gave it a stronger shove. Still the deadbolt would not budge. I could feel myself getting annoyed.

What was I doing wrong?

I loosened my grip on the knob and pondered. Then, relaxing, I allowed the door to come ever so slightly forward. I tried again, and the deadbolt slid easily into place.

I can’t help but laugh at myself now when I think of this silly little incident. It was the perfect metaphor of my personality. I push. I never want to appear weak.

Interestingly, I was recently called out on this very thing by a new acquaintance. He’s been studying me, and he pulled me aside at a party to share his insight about me. I felt exposed. And, yes, that made me feel weak and vulnerable.

I know that my family tires sometimes (maybe often) of my stubborn unwillingness to quit pushing and back down. Would it really hurt so much to give in sometimes? To let that door swing open just a bit?

I’m not planning to rewrite my personality. I like who I am. But even at my mature age, I can see that there is plenty of room for improvement.

If I open my mind a little more, maybe I’ll learn from other people’s ideas. If I open my heart a little more, maybe I’ll be more empathetic. If I could learn to relax a little more and to push a little less, maybe I could allow this new acquaintance to become a friend.

And if I learn to back down and quit pushing, I’ll be able to allow things to fit themselves into place.

The Nature Lesson: Butterflies

I cringed when she opened the package. It was my daughter Kelsey's 10th birthday, and she'd received a butterfly kit from a well-intentioned relative.

Well, at least it wasn't a chemistry set. The little booklet made it seem like a pretty easy lesson about nature, I thought, as we filled out the enclosed form to request the caterpillars.

Waiting for the little critters to show up in the mail, I pictured my family of five all hovering around the plastic cage, observing this lesson as we watched Mother Nature at work.

These painted lady butterflies would be brief and interesting visitors, unlike the long-term commitments of the Golden Retriever we'd brought home from the SPCA and our Blackie cat we were still mourning. We also had recently brought a new rescue kitty, Chloe, into our home, and she'd promptly established herself on Kelsey's desk. 

When the caterpillars showed up, we were ready to begin the lesson. We moved Chloe off of the desk and out of the bedroom, and we set up the habitat. As the caterpillars crawled around and eventually spun themselves into their little chrysalises, I regretted my initial unease. I know I tend to be the family fun-sucker. I worry. That's my job.

But this was kind of fun. And interesting. And educational. Moms like simple lessons about life. We all enjoyed the anticipation of opening the bedroom door to peak in at Mother Nature's progress. And as we secured the door again, we'd wonder what would be next in this lesson of observation.

The next part of the lesson was that of patience. It would take a little over a week for the pupae to transform themselves during the metamorphosis stage.

At last, right on schedule, they emerged. Painted lady butterflies! Bright orange and speckled, they were beautiful!!

Having the miracle of metamorphosis display itself right before our eyes was amazing. They rested magnificently inside their plastic habitat as their wings hardened.

We planned to release the butterflies into the yard as part of the lesson. We hoped that they would stick around during their brief two-weeks of remaining life expectancy.

But the next part of the lesson turned out to be the most difficult, as one day Kelsey walked up the stairs to her room and was surprised to find the door ajar. And just inside, crouched on the floor, was Chloe, happily eating a butterfly. The lesson had become a butterfly massacre.

The habitat was knocked over, and the bedroom was covered with shredded butterflies. Most were dead. A couple quivered their torn, spotted wings. Not a single one was unscathed.

We gathered up the survivors and took them outside to the garden. And the lesson of Mother Nature came to an end.

The Mensch

Mensch: A decent, upright person. In vernalacular, a truly good person.

Do you know that person? Every family should have at least one.

During the second week of October, 1971, I sat in the lobby of the Panorama City Kaiser Permanente hospital while my family went upstairs to say goodbye to my grandpa. I wasn't allowed upstairs. I remember the loneliness of sitting downstairs. Waiting for someone to keep me company.  Not being allowed to take part in the family togetherness.

My cousin Leonard came and picked me up. I don't recall a lot of the details,  but I remember that he took me home with him. He tucked me into bed that night along with his own daughter who was my age.  He took us to a baseball game,  the Dodgers vs. the Astros. Of course, I was still sad, but I felt so much less alone.

Years later when my own dad was in that same hospital, I flew down to southern California. I was plenty old enough to rent a car and get myself to the hospital,  but Leonard insisted upon picking me up.

That's the kind of person Leonard is: a mensch.

I wonder sometimes how Leonard came to be the person we thought to call when we needed someone there. But he is the one who has been called first by several different cousins when there's been need to rally the family. As the executive director of a very large organization, he certainly didn't have the type of job that made it easy to get away, yet he managed. 

When my dad passed away, Leonard broke away from an important business meeting to take my call, and he and his wife made the three-hour drive to be with my mom. He sat with her until I could get there,  only to turn right around and make a late-night return trip in order to be back at work the next morning.

It's not always the bad stuff. My mom's 80th birthday? He was there. My film project being screened at a film festival? He was there. 

I'm grateful that our family has this man, this mensch, to show us what being decent and upright is all about.

A Long Conversation

"I like to start my notes to you as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation."

That's part of a line from one of my favorite movies, You've Got Mail. It has always resonated with me because that is exactly how I feel about my text messages.

As phones have become more computer-like, and computers have become more mobile, I've gotten into the habit of considering each person's preferred communication method when I want to get in touch with someone. Is he using his tablet. Is it too late to text? Does she understand the little red notification message at the top of the screen?

Email, Facebook, text message, land line, cell phone. Everyone has his preference and will adamantly argue why his is the best choice.

"I'm on the computer all day at work and don't want to look at it at home." "I don't text." "I don't answer my home phone." "I'm not on Facebook because I don't care what people are having for lunch." At least one of these applies to you, right?

If you want to reach me, use whichever method you prefer. I'll answer...well, maybe not the house phone.

Personally, I cringe at the thought of talking on the telephone, any telephone. I've never mastered the art of interpreting people's emotions or figuring out when it's my turn to speak on the phone. My brain doesn't stay focused well enough to follow along for more than a few minutes before I start thinking about the dishes in the sink or wondering what type of cookies are in the cupboard.

Email and Facebook have their usefulness, but I'll pick up my cell phone and send a text whenever I can. My text messages are parts of long conversations. I like being able to scroll through previous texts to remind myself of those words of encouragement, snippets of gossip, and advice offered or received.

When I replaced my phone in the fall, I sadly visualized all of those long conversations disappearing. I even considered trying to save them, but I didn't want the guy at the store to think I was silly.

And so I started building new conversations that I look forward to continuing.

Indignation

Let's play a game. I'll list some names, and you tell me how you feel about them.

Bashar al-Assad

Jane Fonda

Michael Jackson

Roman Polanski

Joseph Stalin

Donald Sterling

Michael Vick

Joffrey Baratheon (All right. I know he's not real, but I'm glad the old bat did him in.)

It's so strange to me where society does and does not decide to jump into the frenzy. One may be splayed and skewered while another is practically ignored.

Donald Sterling's private comments show him to be pathetic and small-minded. As far as I'm concerned, however, that's as far is it should go. Ordinarily I wouldn't put any more thought into the situation because I certainly don't follow the entertainment genre of professional sports. Unfortunately, it's nearly impossible to avoid the barrage of "news" about it.

I'm bothered by the capriciousness of public indignation.

Some of the names on my list may mean nothing to you, and others might make you feel sick right down to your core. Entertainers usually get a free pass because, after all, they're artists. Or, if we really like their movies, it doesn't matter what they've done. And then there are the opinions that they've never been found guilty in a court of law or that they've paid their time.

Again, I go back to Donald Sterling. I don't see a secretly recorded private conversation going very far in a courtroom.

My original intention in writing about the baffling habit of punishing some bad behaviors while ignoring others was to draw a conclusion about which groups of people are most likely to be found guilty in the court of public opinion. As I ponder this question, I'm still utterly baffled.

Trial in the Court of Public Opinion

I want to hear what you think about the Donald Sterling punishment!! Please weigh in. Vote and/or comment. Nite: to view the poll on a mobile device,  you must view the Web version.

Daily Mitzvah

It was a loving tribute to his new bride.

I had the honor of attending the wedding reception for my cousin Benjamin and his wife, Esty, a few years ago. He was the only one of my cousins to enter into a good, old-fashioned arranged marriage. I'll admit to being equal parts curious about how this was all working out and grateful to have something happy to celebrate. And so, with two of my adult children, we made the trek from Sacramento to Los Angeles to be a part of the festivities.

We all liked Esty instantly. She's one of those people who makes you feel that she's interested in you. It was obvious that whoever had decided that these two should be a match really knew his stuff.

As we sat visiting and catching up with family news, Benjamin stood and got everyone's attention. He wanted to introduce his wife (our newest cousin) to us so that we could see her through his eyes.

That was several years ago, and Benjamin's words have stayed with me. 

At the end of every day, Benjamin said, before she goes to bed, Esty thinks through her day and makes sure she has done a mitzvah. He was referring to the modern, colloquial definition of mitzvah, "a good deed." Because she'd made this a part of her life, the essence of her inner being, she needn't worry about disappointing herself. She could go to sleep at night feeling content.

A mitzvah. It doesn't have to be anything huge or monumental. Just something. Phoning a friend who's feeling down, thanking a veteran for his service, donating to a worthwhile cause, or  perhaps visiting an elderly neighbor who could use some company.

What a great way to end the day!! It must be very comforting to Esty to fall asleep with that thought every night, way more pleasant, anyway, than counting sheep or ruing an overloaded to-do list.

Benjamin entreated us, his friends and relatives, to follow Esty's lead by doing our own daily mitzvot. Planting that idea was his gift to us to celebrate his marriage.

Although I've made a point to follow Benjamin's encouragement, I'm not quite there yet with the same confidence. Sometimes I get so caught up in my own day and my own schedule that I forget to reflect about whether I've done my daily mitzvah.

Perhaps my mitzvah for today could be to launch a mitzvah brigade. I entreat you all to do a good deed today. Anything!! And tonight, when you go to bed and reflect over your day, you, too, can have the comfort of knowing that you've done your daily mitzvah.

Simplicity

I peered into the refrigerator hopefully.

Tortillas. A bag of shredded cheese. Salsa. Hmmm. And some leftover rice. BINGO.

This was going to be a perfect afternoon meal with friends.

I'm not always this easy-going when it comes to food. In fact, I will always remember that night I sat at the kitchen counter crying in front of my son's friends because I had made a mistake with his birthday cake. I'd spent four hours on that cake!!

And I've spent 3 hours on a lasagna. It was DELICIOUS!!

I like to cook. I do a pretty decent job of it. I rarely stick to the recipes, and it's fun to have an audience for my creations. But it's easy to get so carried away with planning and preparations that I run out of energy to enjoy the moment.

This particular day with friends in the backyard was after we'd spent the morning out in the boat. It was hot, and we were all a little tired when we got back to my house.

I gathered up the bounty that I'd found in the sparsely stocked refrigerator and headed outside. As we all sat and visited, I started assembling quesadillas on the barbecue. We ate them about as quickly as they were coming off the grill. We were all busy people, and it was so nice to be able to relax for a change. And because our relationship usually revolved around our kids, we enjoyed the opportunity to focus on each other. We don't do that enough.

Although it was simple and took very little effort, our impromptu meal turned out to be one that I'll always fondly remember.

Real Heart, Real Soul, and a Jewish Easter Picnic

The phone was ringing as we opened the door, and we all knew what it meant. Even though I wasn't quite 8 years old, I'll never forget that sound. It was the news that my grandpa had died.

October 10, 1971.

We had just returned to Northern California after the family had spent the previous week in Los Angeles saying goodbye to him. By family, I mean everyone besides me. I wasn't allowed upstairs to his hospital room. I was told I was too young. 

Although I understood what had happened, my older brother still sat me down to tell me. But then he said something that didn't make sense. I don't remember his exact words. It was something like, "He wasn't our real grandfather." I remember the word "adopted" being part of it.

Simultaneously,  I realized two things: that my teen-aged brother was bad at explaining things and that blood didn't matter. Of course he was my real grandpa. He loved me.

My earliest memory of my grandpa's love was Easter when I was maybe three or four years old. We'd driven down to LA from El Dorado Hills the day before. Like most little girls, I was excited about Easter, and I asked my grandparents if there would be an Easter picnic.

My grandparents looked at me as if I was some strange, extraterrestrial creature. They were Jewish. But I had a Baptist father and lived in a very Protestant neighborhood. Easter was part of my normal.

My grandpa loved me. He also liked a good party and a good story. So he immediately started working the phone. He managed to rally my grandma's family, and they all showed up, a little perplexed perhaps, for the Easter picnic. Although my memories of that day are a little fuzzy, I remember happily hunting for Easter eggs under the shade of my grandparents English walnut in their North Hollywood backyard.

And I remember feeling loved.

So back to that awful night in 1971. Was he my real grandpa? Absolutely. The fact that he insisted upon adopting my mom when he married my grandma made him all the more real. It was an affirmation of his commitment.

Grandpa was a screenwriter. So, you see, my need to write is not in my blood. It's in my soul.

Bella Bru and Bicycles

I opened the birthday card and discovered a gift card for Bella Bru. I wrote a note to thank the friend who had given it to me and told him that I love going to Bella Bru, but I didn't really tell him why. So now, I will.

It's the bicycles.

Sure Bella Bru has decent enough food, and it's a convenient hangout for the locals to meet for lunch. But to me, it's all about the vibe. The feeling that comes with the bicyclists.

Bella Bru in Carmichael is one of the few spots near enough to the American River Parkway where bicyclists can gather. I'm not talking about the guys who race in Amgen. I'm talking about that nice neighbor couple down the street, a group of retired friends, a family, and sometimes a more serious set who are fueling up before a long ride.

They come in all different shapes and ages and abilities. And they bring with them a certain energy. It's an energy of anticipating their rides or of that sense of accomplishment when they're finished. And there is always an added verve that comes with that bond of friendship and camaraderie. That's what I like.

When I arrive at Bella Bru on my bicycle and order that slice of mixed berry pie, I enjoy it just a little bit more than if I'd driven there. I'm not one of those sporty types with the fancy bike and the clippy bike shoes. But I don't enjoy my bike any less than those guys with the all the gear.

I like to linger long enough to take it all in. There's often a group of older people who are enjoying their retirement years together. I sit and hope that when I'm their age I will have that group of friends who like to get out and do things together. I also can't help but think of those I know who haven't made the time in their busy lives to forge those friendships or to enjoy the outdoors.

So now you know. And if you ever happen to be in my neighborhood, want to go for a ride?

Her Favorite Things

The radio host had my full attention. He often talks about subjects that are deeply personal to him, and he might have been speaking directly to me with this one.

Jack Armstrong of Armstrong and Getty had a very old dog, and he was speculating aloud about how he would know when it was time to euthanize his dog. Someone had once told him that a very clear-cut gauge was when a dog could no longer do its two favorite things.

A dog has two favorite things? I didn't know that! I had a very old dog. Did she have two favorite things? Could she still do them?

I thought back to when we'd first brought Shena home 11 years ago. She was two years old, and we were her third family. Her two favorite things then were chasing my cats and digging enormous holes in the backyard. We considered returning her several times, but, for one thing, I'm very stubborn and did not want to admit defeat, and, for the other, we had a very strong feeling that there would not be another chance for her at the shelter.

Shena is a Belgian tervuren mixed with whatever you get at the SPCA. She was big and fluffy and cuddly and sweet and very full of energy.

When we moved to a house with a larger backyard, her two favorite things became chasing squirrels and running circles around the yard. Shena caught quite a few of those squirrels, and that made me very happy. And we were amazed at Shena's speed and agility as she raced around and around the yard. She was so full of joy.

Now that she is over 13 years old, her hearing  and vision are almost gone, and her old legs and hips are too stiff for running. Those darned squirrels sit in the trees and taunt her. Sometimes they even throw things at her.

But does she have joy? Absolutely!

Now her two favorite things are to go for her daily walk and to sit in the back of the car and look out the back window. She knows when we are getting ready to drive to the mountains and waits by the car for somebody to help her get in. And when we exit the freeway, we roll down the window so she can smell the fresh air and the trees.

I feel for Jack Armstrong because I know how hard that decision is to make. We've had to make the decision to say goodbye to some of our furry friends. Somebody we'll need to make that decision again. But not just now. Not as long as I know that Shena has joy.