Author Archives: Marilyn Shapiro

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About Marilyn Shapiro

After thirty five years in education, I have retired and am free to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a freelance writer. Inspired by my mother, who was the family historian, I am writing down my family stories as well as publishing stories my mother wrote down throughout her life. Please feel free to comment and share.

“A place for remembrance and reflection…”

Dr. Michael Lozman’s dream of a permanent Holocaust memorial in the Capital Region of New York became a reality on December 1, 2025, when Governor Kathy Hochul signed legislation establishing a New York State memorial to honor Holocaust victims and survivors. 

“With the first ever state-sponsored Holocaust Memorial, we are honoring the victims and survivors of the Holocaust while ensuring that all visitors have a place to remember and reflect on what the Jewish community has endured,” Governor Hochul stated in a press release. “New York has zero tolerance for hate of any kind, and with this memorial, we reaffirm our commitment to rooting out antisemitism and ensuring a peaceful and thriving future for all.”

Legislation S5784/A7614 directs the state Office of General Services (OGS) to oversee the design, programming, and location on the Empire State Plaza in Albany of the New York Holocaust Memorial. The memorial will join others on the Plaza that are special sites of remembrance and tribute, offering visitors the opportunity to reflect on issues that touch the core of our society.

The late Dr. Michael Lozman was an area orthodontist and a passionate advocate for Holocaust remembrance. Lozman began his quest honoring victims of the Holocaust when he turned his attention to restoring desecrated Jewish cemeteries in Eastern Europe and, in doing so, educating future generations about the atrocities of the Holocaust. Working with several US colleges, Lozman organized and led fifteen trips through 2017 that resulted in the restoration of ten cemeteries in Belarus and five cemeteries in Lithuania.

Around 2017, Lozman began his pursuit of building a Holocaust memorial in the Capital District in New York. He had forged a friendship with Roman Catholic Diocese of Albany’s Bishop Edward B. Scharfenberger, who graciously donated two acres of land for the development of a memorial in Niskayuna. The gift from the diocese for a Holocaust project was the first known collaboration, for this type of memorial, between a Jewish community and the Roman Catholic Church. In 2018, Lozman founded the Capital District Jewish Holocaust Memorial (CDJHM). The board consisted of a group of individuals from the local community, including Scott Lewendon, Jean “Buzz” Rosenthal, Dr. Robin Lozman Anderson, Tobie Lozman Schlosstein, Warren Geisler, Gay Griffith, Howard Ginsburg, Judy Linden, and Linda Rozelle Shannon. “Michael was always grateful for each member’s sacrifice and sense of duty to the project,” recalled his wife Sharon.

Lozman’s initial concept for the physical memorial met resistance as being too literal a representation. Dan Dembling, an Albany architect, and Michael Blau, a theming solutions expert located in the Capital Region, were recruited to be part of the redesign effort that involved both the CDJHM and the Jewish Federation of Northeastern New York. Many iterations later, the Town of Niskayuna approved Dembling’s design in June 2019.

The planned memorial, as envisioned by the board, consists of walls arranged in the shape of the Star of David. Visitors will be guided around the six-sided structure, where they will be connected to significant events that occurred during the Holocaust. The six columns in the center represent the six million Jews murdered in the Holocaust. Initially estimated to cost $4.5 million, the board increased its fundraising efforts, but they were slowed down by the COVID-19 pandemic. In October 2023, Lozman decided to step back and leave the board. He asked Dembling, whom Lozman considered very capable and enthusiastic, to join the board and to become its president. After careful consideration, Dembling agreed. “Michael set the groundwork for me to think big,” said Dembling in an April 2025 Zoom call. “He was excited to transition the mission to me.”

Faced with new estimates due to inflation to $6 million, the board began exploring other locations that could provide already established restrooms and parking. Dembling proposed shifting the location from Niskayuna to the Empire State Plaza. It was felt that it would provide an ideal place for students and tourists who were visiting New York’s capital city an opportunity to learn about the Shoah. To further emphasize its expanded audience, the memorial will be renamed the New York State Holocaust Memorial (NYSHM). As the official state-sponsored Holocaust memorial, it is expected to draw contributions from the estimated 1.6 million Jews and other citizens of New York.

On October 11, 2024, one year to the day when he had called Dembling to take on the presidency, Lozman died. Continuing his work, the board sought letters of support from government, religious, and private entities. Armed with over forty letters, the board approached local legislators to establish the memorial at the Empire State Plaza. Senator Patricia Fahy and Assemblywoman Gabriella Romero drafted companion bills for their respective houses. Lozman’s vision moved closer to reality when both houses passed the bills unanimously. Governor Hochul’s signature moves the project to the NYS OGS, which must work with an “organization that provides Holocaust education services and programs” to deliver the memorial. The next step in creating the New York State Holocaust Memorial is up to the NYS OGS. The new law charges OGS with selecting an organization to work with on the memorial’s final design and location on the Empire State Plaza. The CDJHM hopes that it will be that organization.

Sharon Lozman, Dr. Robin Lozman Anderson, and other members of the CDJHM board were at the signing. Sharon received the newly signed bill from Governor Hochul as a lasting reminder of her husband’s legacy.

Along with the physical memorial, the board also added components that further incorporate Lozman’s vision of education. Under the guidance of Evelyn Loeb, a longtime Holocaust educator, the CDJHM partnered with Echoes & Reflections, an international Holocaust education program, to create an innovative educational program, which will include a historical timeline of Holocaust events and NYS Holocaust survivors’ testimonies. In addition, the CDJHM will sponsor a fleet of traveling memorials that use the same online educational program and will travel the state to schools, churches, synagogues, and other community locations. Both educational programs are scheduled to launch in the first quarter of 2026.

The Jewish Federation has been one of the many organizations that has supported the work of the CDJHM. At its annual meeting on June 17, the Federation honored three of its members. Dr. Michael Lozman was posthumously awarded the President’s Award; Buzz Rosenthal was also honored with a President’s Award; and Dan Dembling was awarded the Sidney Albert Community Service Award.

In a December 1, 2025, press release, Dembling thanked the governor for her signature. “Since our organization’s founding by Dr. Michael Lozman, we have been dedicated to creating a permanent space in the Capital Region to honor the victims of the Holocaust and educate future generations. At this time when antisemitism is so high and rhetoric is reminiscent of the Nazi era, the need to remember the Holocaust is critically important. As envisioned, this memorial will have statewide impact by helping to educate people about the consequences of prejudice left unchecked and hopefully inspire New Yorkers to stand up against hate in all its forms.”

“Michael planted the seed for all of this,” said Dembling. “His unwavering commitment to honoring the past ensures that the memories of those lost will continue to inspire and educate future generations.”

The Capital District Jewish Holocaust Memorial is a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit organization and is raising funds for the permanent memorial,  traveling memorials, and educational programming. Those wishing to donate or find more information can go to their website at https://www.cdjhm.org/ or email at info@cdjhm.org.

December 01, 2025- Albany, NY- Governor Hochul signs Bill to create a New York State Holocaust Memorial during a Hanukkah Reception at the Executive Mansion (Darren McGee/ Office of Governor Kathy Hochul)

Dr. Michael Lozman

Photograph of CDJHC vision of Holocaust Memorial courtesy of Capital District Jewish Holocaust Committee, Inc. Dan Dembling, President.

Photograph of group at bill signing courtesy of the Press Office of New York State Governor Kathy Hochul. Darren McGee, photographer.

Photograph of Dr. Lozman courtesy of USCPAHA. Tina Khron, photographer. https://www.heritageabroad.gov/dvteam/dr-michael-lozman.

“A tiny person with a big heart:” Losing our Bubbe on Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has always been our favorite holiday. When we lived in Clifton Park, we celebrated for many years by running the Troy Turkey Trot in the morning and then joining the family for dinner at Larry’s cousins’ home in Argyle, New York. Our most memorable Thanksgiving was also our saddest. In 1974, two and a half months after we married, Larry’s beloved grandmother passed away.

Bubbe Rose was the matriarch of Larry’s family. Her tiny stature — she was under five feet and weighed less than one hundred pounds — belied her powerful presence. Everyone loved her.

Bubbe Rose was instrumental in making sure Larry and I got married. We had been seeing each other for a little over two months, but Bubbe was getting impatient and decided to intercede.

“So what is your relationship with this woman?” Bubbe Rose asked her only grandson.

“We’re dating,” Larry responded. 

“You’ve dated long enough!” Bubbe said. “She’s a nice girl. Marry her.”

Fortunately for Bubbe, Larry and I didn’t waste much more time. We got engaged on Rosh Hashanah but waited to announce our plans after the Yom Kippur break-the-fast at the Shapiro’s Saratoga Springs home. As the holiday coincided that year with Larry’s father’s birthday, we held off until Ernie blew out the candles on his cake.

“I have a special present for you this year, Dad,” Larry said.

“Another stupid tie?” Larry’s sister Anita chimed in.

“No, I am giving you a daughter-in-law. Marilyn and I are engaged!” The family was thrilled, but no one was happier than Bubbe Rose. 

Rose [née Slominsky] Hurwitz was born in 1894 in what the family believes was Russia. At a young age, she emigrated to the United States and settled in Syracuse. There she met and married Mose Hurwitz, a coal merchant. Their daughter (and my future mother-in-law) Doris was born in 1920; their son Asher was born eight years later. Rose was a true balabusta, a competent and skilled homemaker, and her home became the gathering place for family and friends for the Jewish holidays. Doris and Ernie were married in the Hurwitz living room on June 20, 1942.

Bubbe’s home in Syracuse remained the heart of the family throughout the next two decades. Immediately following their wedding, Ernie reported for duty at his army assignment in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Doris joined him but returned to Syracuse to deliver their first child, Anita, a year later. Five years later now living in Schuylerville, New York, Doris returned to Syracuse for the birth of their second child, Larry. Mose died less than a year later, and Asher took over the coal business. In 1950, Ernie’s mother Celia died, making Rose their only surviving grandmother.

When Ernie was called back to service during the Korean War, Doris, along with the two children, waited out his return at Bubbe’s home. Once Ernie was discharged, the family moved to Saratoga Springs, where Ernie resumed his pre-military career running Shapiro’s of Schuylerville. Every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur was spent in Syracuse, along with frequent visits.

By the early sixties, Doris and Ernie had added two more children to their family: Marilyn in 1953 and Carole in 1959. Rather than Doris and Ernie packing up the six Shapiros for the drive to Syracuse, Bubbe Rose and Asher came to Saratoga Springs for most of the holidays and for at least one weekend a month. If the family couldn’t be in Syracuse, Bubbe and Asher brought Syracuse with them: baked goods from Snowflake Pastry Shoppe; white fish and cold cuts from one of the city’s kosher delis; and back issues of the Syracuse Herald-Journal so Doris could catch up with her hometown news.

Larry has two favorite stories about Bubbe’s legendary cooking skills. On March 29, 1959, Larry and Asher watched their beloved Syracuse Nationals defeat the Boston Celtics in the sixth game of the playoffs in the city’s War Memorial auditorium. (Unfortunately the Nats lost the critical seventh game, a loss Larry still remembers with regret.) The next day, Larry came down with the flu, necessitating his staying in Syracuse for the following week. Bubbe Rose believed that the only way to cure him was to feed him endlessly. 

In 1971, Larry was accepted to graduate school at Syracuse University, and he moved in with Bubbe Rose and Asher. He probably did not weigh more than 126 pounds when he arrived. Along with breakfast and dinner, Bubbe insisted on packing him elaborate lunches, which Larry shared with his envious fellow students. In less than two months, he had gained sixteen pounds, some of the weight taken off before he graduated. By the time we met at a Purim party in March 1973, he had settled into his adult weight..

We were married on September 8, 1974. Bubbe Rose attended the wedding, looking beautiful in a long pink gown. On November 23, she suffered a stroke. Doris immediately went to Syracuse to be with her. As the week progressed, her condition worsened; by Wednesday, she was unconscious and unresponsive. On Thanksgiving Day, November 28, Larry and I drove to Syracuse to see her for what we knew was the last time. We walked into the hospital room, quietly shared with her that we were there, and told her how much we loved her. To our surprise, she reached out and gently touched our hands. Moments later, she passed away. In a strange way, we got to spend one last holiday with her—a holiday we will always remember.

Was Rose Hurwitz a remarkable woman? She did not write any books. She did not make any scientific discoveries. She was not a movie star. To her children and their siblings, however, she was as remarkable as anyone who had ever lived.

How do you honor a person who meant so much to you? You pass her story onto your children and grandchildren. You have a daughter, a granddaughter, and niece who all have the middle name of Rose. And you always remember that Thanksgiving Day when she touched your hand for the last time.

Bubbe Rose front and center at our wedding

Everywhere a sign….

I am not a fan of the supernatural. Except for Ghost (I love the chemistry between Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze!) and Sixth Sense (What a great ending!), I shy away from any movie that smacks of the occult. And while I respect Stephen King as a writer, I rarely read his best-selling horror novels.But there is one area in which I AM a believer: signs from the other side. 

Several times in my life, I have felt that I have had “visits” from those I had loved and lost. Six weeks after my mother-in-law passed away in 1994, I strongly felt her presence at my daughter’s bat mitzvah six weeks later, literally seeing her sitting on the bima and smiling as Julie ran the service. Thirty-six years later, soon after my mother had passed away, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling someone stroke my shoulder and smelling the powerful scent of Bengay. No, Larry had not touched me, and we didn’t even have the topical analgesic heat rub that my father used in our house. I was convinced it was a sign from my parents that they were together and that they were okay.

So, it was not a surprise that I believe my beloved sister Laura, who passed away on August 29,2025, has sent messages to me in the past two months. Yes, many would write them off as coincidences. I know better. 

On September 6, 2025, I sponsored the oneg, refreshments served after the Friday night service, at Congregation Shalom Aleichem in my sister’s memory. I had spent the week baking cookies, brownies, and challah but waited until Friday morning to order the cake. When I called Publix, the bakery told me it was too late for a special order; I would have to use what they had in the store. The two choices were one with colorful balloons and one unadorned white sheet cake. White? How boring! I texted my niece/Laura’s daughter to ask what lettering I should use for the cake. “What’s her favorite color?” I asked.

“White,” Jen wrote back. 

“OMG!” I wrote back. “That’s the only cake they had left!”. Coincidence? Maybe? Or a sign??

The next “sign” occurred when Larry and I traveled Lake Champlain to spend time with my two surviving siblings and their spouses at my brother Jay and his wife Leslie’s home. Fortuitously, Laura had sold her fully furnished cottage, only a mile down the road, a month before her death, and my sister Bobbie was getting it ready for the October closing. I took one last walk-through and took a few items to bring home. A “Wine Down” towel (Laura LOVED her white Zinfandel). An apron our mother had sewn for Laura decades before. Her favorite flannel shirt. And a green floral tote bag. After throwing out some tissues and a plastic bag filled with Tylenol, I switched the essentials from my regular pocketbook to Laura’s tote.

The next day, I was rummaging through the tote to find my comb. Deep in a side pocket were two pictures: one of six-month-old Laura smiling from her baby carriage; the second, a formal shot of Laura and Will, her significant other, who had passed away 18 months earlier. “Look what I just found!” I said with tears in my eyes. “Laura is telling us that she is happily reunited with Will, the love of her life!”

One last sign: Soon after trip to New York, I called Dan Dembling, the architect and president of Capital District Jewish Holocaust Memorial, Inc, to ask if the governor had signed the bill to establish and create the New York State Holocaust Memorial. When he said it was still being reviewed and considered by the executive chamber team, I told him that I would knead prayers into my weekly challahs that the bill would be passed quickly, in part selfishly so that I could complete the story I wrote about the project this past spring. Dan then asked me a favor: Please knead in prayers for his mother, who had passed away Friday, August 18, at the age 87 years old.

“I’m sorry to hear this, Dan,” I said. “Was she sick?” 

“No,” Dan said. “She was doing great, but she came down with what appeared to be pneumonia and was gone ten days later.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “My sister passed away on Friday, August 29, with the same scenario! I promise I will knead prayers for her when I bake my challah! What was your mother’s name?”

“Frances,” Dan said.

I gasped. “That was my mother’s name! My three-year-old granddaughter was named after her…Frances June. We call her Frannie.”

“What a coincidence!” Dan said. “I have an interesting story as to how I got my name. When my grandmother was single, she was the secretary for her synagogue. During her time working there she also typed manuscripts for the rabbi’s wife, Sadie Rose Weilerstein, a prolific author who wrote several Jewish children’s books. One book was What Danny Did, a collection of short stories about how the protagonist celebrated each of the Jewish holidays. Growing up, that was my mother’s favorite book. When I was born, my mother named me Daniel after Weilerstein’s character. I have an original first edition of the book on my shelf, and I will text you a picture of the book and Sadie’s inscription to my grandmother that is on the first inside page.”

We said our goodbyes, and minutes later, Dan, as promised, sent me a picture of the old book and the inside leaf. It read:

To Miss Spieler

In sincere appreciation

from

Sadie Rose Weilerstein

March 25, 1928

 MARCH 25, 1928, exactly fourteen years to the day before Laura was born. Another message from heaven that Laura is okay? I don’t doubt it.

“While we may lose a person we love, their love is not lost to us,” Mary Louis Kelly writes in It. Goes. So. Fast. “It just simply finds its way in different channels.” Whether it be coincidences or “signs” or b’shert, the love we share has found a life of its own, its own channels. May Laura’s memory be a blessing. 

The oneg in Laura’s memory

Climb every mountain as long as you can…Reflections on Rosh Hashanah

Are the trails getting steeper? Or am I getting older?

These were my thoughts as Larry and I climbed Shrine Ridge Trail in Summit County in early July. We had been in Colorado for ten days before we attempted the hike, so I believed I had acclimated my body to the altitude. But we started at 11,000 feet and would peak closer to 12,000. As I huffed and puffed up the trail, I never doubted I would finish. The bulldog in me would never give up. But could I do this next year? In five years? Who knows?

Larry and I DID finish our climb on that beautiful summer day. We got up to the top and took in the colorful wildflowers and the amazing vistas, grateful we could still climb mountains at our age. 

In the weeks that followed, we often chose an easier three-mile hike that we accessed with a short walk from our rental. In early August, however, Larry and I met our friends Sandie and Howie for a more challenging hike up the Herman Gulch Trail in the Ranger District of the Arapaho National Forest. During our four-mile hike, we encountered a couple of around our age descending. I posed my “Steeper or older” question aloud. 

“Neither,” the man told me. “We are experiencing geographical uplift, a phenomenon in which the earth shifts to steeper inclines as we age.” 

Okay, maybe Earth is NOT in fact shifting. But our lives have. Before we left for our summer in cooler temperatures, a close friend, a non-smoker, had just been diagnosed with lung cancer. Another friend’s cancer had returned. And a third friend, who had biked 86 miles for his eighty-sixth birthday, died a week later of a heart attack while on a shorter ride. “He was doing what he loved,” people said. But I doubt that it was sufficient comfort to the family he left behind.

Our time in the mountains changed as well. Friends we looked forward to seeing every summer developed health issues and/or “aged out” as they could no longer handle the high altitude. One of Larry’s pickleball buddies had told us last summer that he and his wife were opting out of summers in Summit County and renting a place in a mountainous region of Arizona, reducing their elevation by 4000 feet. Dear friends who had been part of our summer plans for over ten years, whether eating out, hiking, or playing cutthroat games of Mexican Train, also had to give up their beautiful home in Dillion, Colorado, and remain in Charlotte, North Carolina, at a more comfortable 671 feet above sea level. 

And then the “life can change on a dime” phenomenon hit our own family very hard soon after Larry and I returned to Florida. Two days after coming home from an incredible cruise through the British Isles with my brother, sister-in-law, and a friend, my sister Laura was hospitalized in Upstate New York with breathing problems. Doctors were trying to determine the exact cause of her symptoms when she took a turn for the worse. Diagnosis: a rare form of pneumonia. Grim news followed: Laura was on a ventilator in the intensive care unit. We had two days of optimism when she was taken off the ventilator. She was looking forward to her life after hospitalization and rehab: a highly anticipated move to San Diego, California, to be closer to her children and grandchildren. But her 83-year-old body failed. She passed away on Friday, August 29. 

The four Cohen children had been fortunate indeed. Whereas some of our friends have strained or non-existent relationships with their siblings and/or their spouses, we all had remained close—maybe even closer as we had all realized how life can change on a dime. And now one of us is gone, leaving the three of us to grieve with other family members and friends who will miss her so much.

“On Rosh Hashanah, all who enter the world pass before Him,” reads a passage in the Mishnah. One Jewish interpretation is that we march single file like sheep before God to determine whether we will be written in the Book of Life. Another interpretation is that we march like soldiers. But my favorite interpretation, reflecting on my summer in the mountains, comes from Resh Lakish, a third century BCE scholar. The rabbi envisioned this march taking place before God on a mountain, each person walking cautiously, single file, along a narrow, treacherous path. 

As I observe the High Holy Days this year, warm memories of my beloved “big sister” will be forefront in my thoughts. Prayers for those we lost and those who are ill will take on even greater significance. Will I be climbing mountains in 5786? Hopefully, I will tackle Shrine Ridge and Herman Gulch with the same vigor and determination I did this past summer. But thanks to Resh Lakish, when I am in one of those narrow and knowing me, not-TOO treacherous paths, I will hope that God is looking down and giving me the strength to move forward in my life, no matter where the path takes me. 

Sources:

Liben, Rabbi Daniel. “Sheep, Mountain Hikers, and Soldiers.” Temple Israel of Natick, Massachusetts. Rosh Hashannah 5756. https://www.tiofnatick.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/rh_sermon_2015.pdf

McCullough Gulch. Not sure if we will hike this one again!

Shapiro Publishes There Goes My Heart

On September 3, 2016, , I launched my first book, There Goes My Heart. This article was published in the Jewish World News. Ten years later, I am about to publish Book Five: Never Forget: Stories of Jewish Sacrifice, Survival, and Strength. Who ever thought this girl from Keeseville, who wrote her first short story when she was 16, would ever be published??

Marilyn Cohen Shapiro of Poinciana has announced the publication of “There Goes My Heart,” a collection of personal memoirs. The collection of over 40 personal essays captures special moments in a lifetime spent in Upstate New York, Florida, Colorado, and beyond. Her Amazon author page states, “Readers will empathize with these true stories of dating, marriage, raising children, and caring for elderly parents through the author’s wit edged with appreciation and love of family and friends.” The book is available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle e-reader format. A graduate of University of Albany, Shapiro was employed for over 25 years at the Capital District Educational Opportunity Center, a division of Hudson Valley Community College, Troy, New York, first as an adult educator and later as Coordinator of Program Development and Research. Since 2013, Shapiro has been a regular contributor to The Jewish World, a Schenectady, New York,-based bi-weekly newspaper. Shapiro and her husband Larry moved to Poinciana in 2015. They are members of Congregation Shalom Aleichem in Kissimmee. Shapiro is a lifetime member of Hadassah and a recipient of a Hadassah leadership award. She is a 2008 recipient of the State University of New York Chancellor’s Award for Public Service. This is Shapiro’s first book.

Cover created by Mia Crews

The Four Cohens

My sister Laura Appel passed away after a short illness on Friday, August 29, 2025. I had written an earlier version of this story but am sharing a revised post in light of our family’s recent loss.

It is a hot day in late June. I wait impatiently on the front porch of our old Victorian house in our small upstate New York town. The blue sedan finally pulls into the driveway. My father climbs out from behind the wheel. As I skip down the steps and run across the yard, Dad opens the door on the passenger side. My mother holds a bundle wrapped in pink. I gaze in wonder upon a full head of black hair and an infant’s face crunched up and bright red from crying. “Meet your little sister, Roberta Jessica,” Mom said quietly.

That was my first memory. I was four years old, turning five and starting kindergarten three months later. I was thrilled to be a big sister. 

I was probably the happiest member of the Cohen family that day. My sister Laura, upon hearing before her thirteenth birthday that another child was on the way, immediately weighed in. “Why didn’t you consult me first?” she demanded. When told she was not part of the decision-making process, she stated, “Well, if you think you have a built-in babysitter, you have it all wrong!”

Jay, who was nine, only wanted a brother. When Dad woke him on the morning of June 25 to tell him he had another sister, he groaned, pulled the covers over his head, and went back to sleep. I am not sure he gave the newest addition another thought. 

And I am not sure how happy my parents were when they realized that they were to be a family of six. Dad barely made enough money managing a small store to support a family of five, much less another child. Mom was thirty-six, looking forward to putting her youngest in full-day kindergarten and having a life without diapers and bottles. 

But from the moment Bobbie came home (“Roberta Jessica” would forevermore be saved for formal documents), I was fascinated. When my mother filled up the old bassinet with water to bathe her, I was right there beside her to help. When she needed to be pushed in the carriage, I wanted to be the one holding the handles. And when Bobbie needed casts on her legs to correct weak, turned-in muscles, it was I who watched over her in her crib, which was set up next to the twin beds in my room.

I have heard stories about older children being jealous of their siblings when they came home from the hospital. Children who resorted to tantrums. Children who wanted to know when the baby was going back to the hospital. A five-year-old who rode her bike up and down her street crying, “Does anyone want a little girl? My parents don’t love me anymore!” But I never remember being jealous. She was my little sister, my live baby doll.

If there were any difficulties between us, it was probably because everyone who met Bobbie immediately fell in love with her. She was always smiling, always happy, always easygoing. This was in stark contrast to me  — moody, anxious, and often fearful. Little Miss Sunshine could charm her way into everyone’s heart, a direct contrast to my Little Miss Worrywart personality.

And Bobbie was beautiful. I was chubby, with thick glasses that covered my only good feature, my blue eyes. On the other hand, Bobbie had black hair, high coloring, freckles sprinkled across her nose, and eyes that rivaled Elizabeth Taylor. 

As we grew up, Bobbie and I continued to be inseparable. She was always part of my parties, my sleepovers, my bike rides. In every one of the few pictures we have of our childhood, Bobbie is always front and center, her smile lighting up the world. Years later, when I asked my mother what it was like to have a baby at thirty-six years old, she said, “I didn’t raise her. You did!”

The four Cohen children were fortunate indeed. Whereas some of our friends had strained or non-existent relationships with their siblings and/or their spouses, we all remained close—maybe even closer when we realized that life could change on a dime. When Bobbie called to share the news that she had breast cancer, our first thoughts were, “This can’t be happening to our little sister.” But it was her “Little Miss Sunshine” attitude that got her through surgery, radiation, chemo, and her recovery. When Laura had a stroke a few years later, she often referred to Bobbie’s spirit during her cancer ordeal and was determined to be as strong. She was. 

And now one of us is gone. Laura, 83, had  just completed a fabulous cruise to the British Isles with my brother Jay, his wife, Leslie, and a friend. Unfortunately, two days after she returned, she was hospitalized in Upstate New York with breathing problems. Doctors were trying to determine the exact cause of her symptoms when she took a turn for the worse. Diagnosis: a rare form of pneumonia. Grim news followed: Laura was on a ventilator in the intensive care unit. We had two days of optimism when she was taken off the ventilator. She was looking forward to her life after hospitalization and rehab: a highly anticipated move to San Diego, California, to be closer to her children and grandchildren. But her 83-year-old body failed. She passed away on Friday, August 29. 

We  three surviving siblings and our spouses,  her children and grandchildren, and her many other relatives, and her friends will miss her terribly. As I told my 10-year-old granddaughter, who hated to see me so sad, we mourn because we experienced the privilege of loving our sister and being loved by her.

One of my parents’ favorite pictures of the four Cohen kids was taken just before Laura graduated high school. We are sitting on a couch in our house in Keeseville—Jay on the arm, followed by Laura, Marilyn, and Bobbie. In a home with few family pictures, that particular one graced my parents’ living room for the rest of their lives. We siblings all kidded my parents and each other, wondering, “Is this the best we ever looked?” 

The evening after my mother’s funeral, we pulled out that picture. Bobbie’s husband Emil posed us all on my family room couch with the four of us trying hard to duplicate our fifty-plus-years-ago expressions. Then we took a more serious one, without the silly grins.

 After that day, we continued the tradition. Each time we were together, whether it is at a bat mitzvah or a weekend reunion, we would line up—Jay, Laura, Marilyn, and Bobbie—snap a picture, and were grateful that the “Four Cohen Kids” were happy, healthy, and together again. 

Sadly, the tradition will no longer continue. Rather than four siblings, there will be three shown and one residing in our hearts. So, I will share one word of advice: please give extra hugs to those you cherish and tell them you love them every time you speak to them. EVERY TIME. Life can turn on a dime. It did for us.

May Laura’s memory be a blessing and inspiration.

Witness to History: Ruth Gruber

In 2019, my husband Larry and I were browsing the shelves of Book Passages, an independent bookstore in San Francisco’s Ferry Building. Larry held up a book he had found in the history section: Haven–The Dramatic Story of 1,000 World War II Refugees and How They Came to America.

“Do you remember the exhibit at the New York State Museum regarding the only Jewish refugees brought to the United States during World War II?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said. My mind flashed back to walking through the Albany museum’s exhibit with its pictures, displays, and sign boards depicting a group of refugees who were housed in Fort Ontario (Oswego, NY). 

“This book is a first-hand account by the woman responsible for getting the refugees to the United States—Ruth Gruber,” he explained on his way to pay for the book. 

Six years and much reading later, Larry and I agree: Ruth Gruber, American journalist, photographer, writer, humanitarian, and United States government official, is one of the most interesting people who ever lived. 

Gruber was born in 1911 in Brooklyn, the fourth of five children of Russian-Jewish immigrants. She graduated from high school at 15 years old. After earning an undergraduate degree from New York University at 18, she won a fellowship at the University of Wisconsin, where she obtained a master’s degree in German and English literature. She subsequently received her doctorate from the University of Cologne in Germany at 21, making her at the time the youngest person with a doctorate.

After returning to the United States, Gruber became a correspondent for the New York Herald. The only reporter to be allowed to travel across the Soviet Arctic, she saw firsthand how people lived there and witnessed the Siberian Gulag. 

During World War II, she worked for the Department of the Interior where, as a special assistant to U.S. Secretary Harold L. Ickes, she became its field representative in Alaska. In June 1944, she was to undertake what she later considered “the most important assignment” of her life.

Reading the Washington Post at breakfast, Gruber, then 33, learned that President Franklin D. Roosevelt had signed an executive order allowing 1,000 refugees gathered in Italy, 90% Jewish, to be admitted to the United States. After years of this country’s refusal to allow Jews to escape the Nazi horrors of World War II, this was the only government authorized attempt to bring European Jews to America under the protection of the U.S.

Rejoicing that something was finally being done, Gruber rushed into Ickes’ office to express her concern for their well-being.

“Mr. Secretary, these refugees are going to be terrified — traumatized,” Gruber recalled in a 2010 interview in the Sunday Telegraph of London. “Someone needs to fly over and hold their hand.”

“You’re right,” Ickes responded. “I’m going to send you.” The fact that she was young, Jewish, and could speak both German and Yiddish made her an ideal person for the job. Oswego was chosen as a location for housing he during World War II primarily because of the availability of Fort Ontario, a decommissioned military base, which was converted into a temporary refugee shelter.

After flying to Italy, Gruber boarded the Army troop transport USNS Henry Gibbins and greeted the refugees. “I would like … to know who you are, what kind of people you are. What you’ve gone through to survive,” she recounted in her 2000 book Haven: The Dramatic Story of 1,000 World War II Refugees and How They Came to America “You are the living witnesses.”

Throughout the two-week Atlantic crossing to the United States, Gruber proved to be a calming, empathetic listener and a communicator and advocate for the refugees who came from 18 countries. She intervened in disputes, taught English, cared for the seasick, and comforted the refugees, some who had miraculously escaped the Nazis and others who had spent time in concentration camps.

During the voyage, “Mother Ruth,” as she was often affectionately called, became a witness herself, listening to and writing down many of the refugees’ stories. “Get all the terror,” said Dr. Henry Macliach, a doctor from Yugoslavia. “We lived it. We will live with it for the rest of our lives. But you are the first one we can tell it to. Yes, write it down so the world will know.”

On Aug. 3, 1944, the ship arrived safely in New York City, and Gruber accompanied the refugees to Oswego. Initially, the site of the cold, desolate fort surrounded by barbed wire brought back memories and fears of what many had faced in Europe. Through Gruber’s guidance and the support of many others, including the residents of Oswego, government officials, and even Eleanor Roosevelt, the place became a “haven” from the ravages of war. 

“Thus I became a witness and participant,” Gruber wrote. “I experienced their joys and pain, rejoicing in their marriages and love affairs, sharing pride in their children, mourning those who died by their own hand or by acts of God.”

FDR’s initial executive order stated that the refugees were “guests” of the United States under the condition that they must return to their origin countries after the war. In late 1945, the federal government changed its mind and allowed all who wished to stay to become U.S. citizens. The final chapter of Haven lists the successes of the new U.S. citizens, who would establish careers in many fields, including medicine, technology, education, law, business, and the arts.

In recent years, New York legislators in both the U.S. House and Senate have been working to designate Fort Ontario and its associated museum, Safe Haven, as a National Historical Park. In 2018, Senator Kirsten Gillibrand (D-NY) passed a bill directing the Secretary of the Interior to conduct a special resource study, the first step in the process to designate a site as a unit of the National Park System. In 2024, the SRS was finalized and concluded that the two-acre portion of Fort Ontario representing the fort’s use as a World-War II European refugee shelter meets all necessary criteria. The bill passed the Senate but failed to become law. In February 2025, Gillibrand, Senator Charles Schumer (D-NY), and Representative Claudia Tenney (R-NY) reintroduced the bipartisan bill.

“The Holocaust Refugee Shelter at Fort Ontario was a place of safety and hope during a dark moment in history, and it deserves recognition in the National Park System,” said Senator Gillibrand. “I am proud to once again be introducing this legislation to achieve this goal and am determined to work across the aisle to get it done.”

Gruber was profoundly impacted by her participation in the refugees’ “journey out of despair and death, to hope and life and light.” Although she was born a Jew, she became a Jew. “I knew my life would forever be inextricably interlocked with Jews,” she wrote in Haven.

The rest of her life was a testament to that commitment. After World War II, she witnessed the scene at the Port of Haifa where Jewish refugees on board the ship Exodus were not allowed to enter Palestine. She then followed them to France and Germany. While on a ship off the coast of France, the refugees conducted a hunger strike. The only reporter allowed on the ship to report firsthand on the unfolding story was Ruth Gruber. Her book, Exodus 1947, became the basis for the 1960 film Exodus. She later covered Israel’s war for independence. She became Ben-Gurion’s friend and conducted a first in-person interview when he became Israel’s first president.

In 1951, Gruber married, had two children, and continued her journalistic endeavors. In 1985, at 74 years old, she visited Jewish villages in Ethiopia and chronicled the rescue of the Ethiopian Jews to Israel. Throughout her life, she chronicled her adventures through her photography, articles, and 18 books. Gruber died at 105 on November 17, 2016.

“I had two tools to fight injustice — words and images, my typewriter and my camera,” she was quoted in her New York Times obituary. “I just felt that I had to fight evil, and I’ve felt like that since I was 20 years old. And I’ve never been an observer. I have to live a story to write it.”

A typewriter. A camera. Empathy. With my iPhone camera nearby, I click away on my computer keyboard, hoping each of my stories displays the same empathy Ruth Gruber showed throughout her life. She is not only the most interesting person I’ve ever encountered. Ruth is my hero and my role model. I’m so grateful to have learned her story. 

Originally published May 11, 2025.

Tale of two survivors united by the Shoah: Jacob and Rachel Kazimierek

Two Polish Holocaust survivors from Poland. United by shared tragedies and strengthened by the love for the children they raised. Here is their story. 

Yakov “Jacob” Kazimierek was born in Mlawa, Poland, on December 10, 1926, one of the seven children of Abraham and Hannah (Granaska) Kazimierek. The family farmed and raised cattle, which they milked or slaughtered. 

After Germany’s invasion of Poland in 1939, thousands of the country’s Jews were subjected to the Nazis’ persecution, terror, and exploitation. Through the Nazi’s newly established “protective detention” orders, the Kazimierek family, along with other Jews, were moved to a Jewish ghetto. In 1942, Nazis deported the family to Treblinka. Hannah and the four youngest children were immediately sent to the gas chambers.

Physically failing under the brutal demands of forced labor, Abraham was selected for murder in the gas chamber. Another brother, Hans, eventually succumbed to disease and malnutrition.

The two surviving brothers endured years of starvation diets, forced labor, and brutal beatings.“[Jacob] had to hide his food or others would take it and he would die,” his cousin Regina Markowicz wrote in an account of his life. “He worked very hard and was treated like an animal. He slept on a wood or cement slab and endured terrible winters without adequate clothing, bedding, or shoes.” Jacob bore the physical signs of his imprisonment—scars on his back from the metal slats in his bed, one finger permanently disfigured from a beating, and of course, the tattoo number “76341,” the number tattooed on his arm—on his body—for the rest of his life.

Shortly before the liberation of Auschwitz, Jacob managed to escape. Although the exact details vary in family lore—in one scenario, he escaped on a bicycle; in another telling, he and two friends escaped posing as Germans—Jacob spent the remainder of the war hiding in forests and cellars, subsisting on food foraged in the woods, stolen, or given by kind Polish Christian. After Auschwitz was freed, Jacob was reunited with his brother Aaron, leaving them as the only two of nine members of the Kazimierek family to survive. 

Sweden, a neutral country during the war, took in about 15,000 refugees, and Jacob and Aaron were among them to be sent to a displaced person’s camp in Jönköping, Sweden. Remembering the skills learned at his family’s home in Poland, Jacob worked in a slaughterhouse. In 1948, fleeing from a girlfriend who was pressing him into getting engaged, Jacob moved to Israel and enlisted in Haganah, the Zionist paramilitary organization that fought for Israel’s independence. Four years later, he returned to Jönköping, where he met a twenty-three-year-old woman, a fellow Holocaust survivor whose story was as tragic and heartbreaking as Jacob’s. 

The only child of a Jewish couple from Poland, Rachel Abromowitz Kazimierek was born on July 6, 1929. At the age of ten, she and her family were interred in the Lodz Ghetto. At the age of 13, she and her parents were among thousands of Jews deported to the concentration camps. After arriving at Auschwitz, she never saw her parents again. Rachel was placed in Bergen Belsen and assigned to work in the Wieliczka salt mines. Each day, she and other women were herded several miles each night, working in deplorable condition underground. She was freed on April 15, 1945. Her years of forced labor would have serious impacts on her visional health. 

Jacob, newly returned from Israel, and Rachel met at a dance in the displaced person’s camp. According to their daughter Hannah Lewanowski, their match was not as much born of love as of necessity. As the United States gave preference to married refugees, the couple married in November 1952. Their first child, Hannah, was born thirteen months later. Jacob’s surviving brother, settled in Sweden, where he lived with his wife and three children until his death in 1979. 

In 1954, Jacob, Rachel, and Hannah came to the United States, first settling in New Haven, Connecticut and then relocating to Waterbury. Initially working as a butcher at Bargain Food Center, he opened his own store, Brass City Beef in 1953, which he operated, with Rachel’s help, until his retirement in 1990. 

In a March 15, 2015, article in the Hartford Courant (“Holocaust survivor built new life in Waterbury”), Jacob was praised for the store’s personal service and competitive prices. “He had a good following,” said Tony Nardella, a former Waterbury police officer and customer. “He was well liked and always had a smile and a joke.”

“He came to this country with no money,” said Hannah.“He had no English. He worked seven days a week. He made it.” The Kazimiereks developed a strong community with other Holocaust survivors. They socialized with each other, often sitting around a large table sharing schnapps and pastries while the children played together. 

Meanwhile, Rachel continued to deal with eye infections, possibly a result of working in the mines. In 1961, she had her left eye surgically removed and was fitted with a prosthetic eye. In 1966, she had a detached retina, which resulted in vision loss in her right eye. From that time on, the children were cared for by a nanny. Determined, Rachel moved on with her life, using a cane to walk. Despite her initially limited English, Rachel volunteered at the local Easter Seals to help other visually impaired individuals and visited schools to share stories of her Holocaust experiences. 

Jacob passed away in 2014. Rachel, 95, remains in the home she and Jacob originally purchased in Waterbury, Connecticut. She has 24-hour-care but still prides herself in her independence and cognitive abilities. “My brain, sweetheart, is very clear and very good,” she shared during a February 2025 interview. “I still remember birthdays and anniversaries,” she said, rattling off the important dates of her children and grandchildren. Freida Winnick, a daughter who lives near her in Connecticut, provides additional support and care.

Rachel attends monthly Holocaust survivor luncheons in West Hartford, Connecticut. She also attends presentations organized by “Voices of Hope,” a non-profit educational organization created by descendants of Holocaust survivors from across Connecticut to raise social awareness. 

Rachel emphasizes that she holds no ill will despite her harrowing past. “I am not against anyone,” she said. I get along with everybody.” 

Originally published May 15, 2025

My Mom and Ol’ Blue Eyes

“What’s that you have in your ear?”

We were on our way home from a family event in New York City in March, 2009. Larry was driving, and my sister Laura was in the passenger seat, and I was sitting in the back with my mom. “This is my iPod. I can listen to music on it.”

“Can I try?” 

“Of course!”

I removed the earbuds from my ears and put them in my mother’s. Then I scrolled through my playlist. Nearly 90% were Broadway musicals. I knew my mom would love them.

For the next two hours, my mom was in Broadway heaven. She zoned out on the music, sometimes singing along tunelessly.

I knew I had to get my mother a similar device. We had lost our father in November 2008, and my mother was now alone in her independent living apartment. She was doing amazingly well. “Life is about change, and you have to move on,” she told us. But the evening hours were long, and she missed “MY Bill. That week, I ordered a iPod Shuffle from the Apple website. The device was very simple. It could store 100’s on songs in its small flash drive, which resembled a Bic lighter. Placing the one earbud into one’s ear was also easy to use.  I loaded it with Mom’s favorites: Dozens of my Broadway musicals, Judy Garland, and, of course, Frank Sinatra.

Ah, Ol’ Blue Eyes! Mom was married with a toddler when the skinny Italian from Hoboken,New Jersey first came crashing onto the scene. She may have not been a “Bobby Socker,” the name given adolescent girls in the 1040’s. But she loved his choice of songs, his voice, and especially his sense of timing. “Just listen to him, Marilyn,” she would tell me. “No one can sing as well as him!” 

My mother was thrilled with her new toy. She used the Shuffle for the next two years. Thankfully, it took little work on my part. I left a charger at her apartment to use as needed. Outside of that, she could listen to music to her heart’s content. I would often walk into her apartment and find her sitting in her favorite Lazy-Boy, singing along to Frank.

On December 22, 2010, four days after I had retired, Mom had a heart attack. At the hospital, the emergency room doctor cautioned my husband Larry and me that she may not make it home. If she did, she had three to six months at best. Her 92-year-old body was failing. 

You couldn’t tell a day after her heart attack. She sat up in her hospital bed, catching up with family and friends on the phone and endearing herself to the nurses who tended to her. I brought the Shuffle to the hospital, and she spent time in between phone calls listening to her favorites.

She also used the Shuffle over the next few months. In late February, she read her last book, did her last Word Search, and balanced her checkbook. Then she had a stroke. As all her children and her wonderful Hospice nurse watched over her, she slipped into unconsciousness. I placed the Shuffle on her ear as she slept.

Mom passed away early morning on March 2, 2011. My three siblings and I worked quickly to clear the apartment, knowing we would be responsible for the full month’s rent if we weren’t out by March 5th.

I remember taking home the Shuffle, but a week later, it was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere with no luck. It was gone. It was just “stuff,”, but somehow that little device was important to me. I grieved for its loss.

Fast forward to Late May, 2015. Larry and I had made the decision to move to Florida, and we were packing up the house. I was cleaning out the three drawer oak chest that was in our foyer. When finished, I pulled it out from the wall to make sure I didn’t miss anything behind it. Stuck in one of the slats was what looked like a Bic cigarette lighter. “How did that get there?” I thought.

It was Mom’s Shuffle. Obviously, I had brought it home, placed it on the top of the dresser, and it had slipped off and “adhered” itself to the back of the oak chest. 

I charged it up and VOILA! Frankie crooned in my ear. 

June 1st will make ten years since we made our move. I still have Mom’s Shuffle. It has been replaced for the most part with my iPhone and my Alexa. But there are days when I miss my mom and want to feel close to her. So I pull it out of my electronics box, charge it up, stick it in my ear, and sing along with Frank. “I’ve got you under my skin,” he croons.” You make me feel so young!” And of course, “I did it myyyyy way!” “I shed some tears, think of Francis Albert Sinatra and Frances Evelyn Cohen, and I feel my mother’s love all over again. 

Mom and Ol' Blue Eyes

Driving Mr. Larry

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Source Unknown

The day of reckoning was finally here. For fifty years, Larry had been the designated driver. But rotator cuff surgery in the spring of 2023 changed our family dynamics. Guess who was now behind the wheel? And guess who was in the passenger seat?

Larry has told me repeatedly that he preferred to drive as part of our division of labor. “You do so much. The cooking. The majority of the cleaning.My driving when both of us are in the car allows you free time.” He is happy to turn on a Jimmy Buffett station and head to one particular harbor—or anyplace we need to go. 

Which is true. My perch to the right allows me to read a book, play with my iPhone, or sleep. Furthermore, I can relax knowing that a person I consider an excellent driver is getting us where we need to be. 

The challenge is that when I am driving, Larry feels the need to help. Needless to say, his “help” makes me anxious, nervous, and, at times, furious. Larry and I have had few fights in our 50 years of marriage. Some of the worst are a result of his backseat driving. It is just easier for me to let him take over the wheel.

The proverbial backseat driver (BSD) has been the butt of numerous jokes. Suggestions to cope abound: Turn up the music. Turn on the GPS. Give the offending party responsibility for another task. (“Can you Google some restaurants near by?”) Put the offender in the trunk or tied to the roof. Or just refuse to drive.

I’ve had my own ideas on how to cope. A month before his shoulder repair, Larry had surgery to fix his trigger finger. It only required a local anesthetic and someone to drive him home. Forty-five minutes after the procedure, the nurse was going over the final paperwork for his release. She asked if we had any questions.

“Do you have duct tape?” I asked

“Errr…no.” she replied.

“Then how about giving him a shot of Valium?” I said. “I need to keep him quiet for the 25 mile ride home.”

As I expected, the nurse refused. We didn’t make it out of the parking garage before Larry was compelled to start giving me directions.

“You need to go left up the ramp,” Larry instructed. 

“No, I need to go right.” 

“You need to go left.”

Aware that his sense of direction was better than mine, I went left. We got to have a nice tour of the upper floors of the garage before passing by our space on the way down to the exit. By the time I merged the car onto I-4, Larry had already notified me of two lane changes. [Full disclosure: I almost missed the ramp] Fortunately, he had the go-ahead to resume driving the next day.

This was obviously not the case for Larry’s rotator cuff surgery. His right arm was in a huge sling, and his limited shoulder movement meant he would not be driving for at least six weeks. Staying home was not an option. We had Special Olympics practices and state games, numerous doctors’ appointments, and outing to restaurants, supermarkets, Disney Springs, and Bok Tower. 

Each trip came with its own set of instructions. “You need to be in the left lane for the upcoming turn.” (The turn wasn’t  happening for three miles.)“Is there a reason you driving so slowly? (I was in a school zone.) “There’s a stop sign ahead.” (Really? I didn’t notice. Duh!)

My “Driving Mr. Larry” stories may bring a chuckle and a flash of recognition to some, but such “help” has a darker side.”A 2011 ‘Driver Distraction’ study, commissioned by Esure car insurance revealed that 51 percent of respondents have gotten angry while driving because of backseat commanders.The statistics get worse: 14 per cent of motorists have had an accident or near miss due to being distracted by a backseat driver.

Adding to the challenge is that from the day I got my permit, I have never been an enthusiastic driver. It didn’t help that my mother, who was extremely tentative behind the wheel, taught me how to drive. I can still envision her “braking” every time I got close to the stop sign during our tense practice drives. After taking my driver’s education classes at Keeseville Central School with Ken Goodspeed (I kid you not), it took me three tries with Plattsburgh’s DMV to pass the New York State driving test. (To this day, I hate parallel parking!). 

Thousands of miles later, I take pride in having only one traffic ticket—going 47 miles in a school zone. Embarrassingly, my transgression occurred in front of Okte Elementary during Adam’s first grade recess. If I had any hope of not sharing my shame with Larry, it was dashed when Adam asked at dinner that night, “Mommy, why did that nice policeman stop you in front of the playground?”

I also take pride in our 1272 mile trip we took in 2015 to our new home in Florida. We came in two cars, Larry driving the Prius; me, the Camry. Despite the traffic jams, horrific rain storms and all the crazy drivers we encountered, we both completed our three-day trek successfully. Ten years later, I have managed to drive both by myself and with passengers with a level of assurance I hadn’t enjoyed when Larry is in the car. 

In the five weeks following his surgery, Larry became more comfortable with my driving—commenting less and complimenting more. He was very appreciative of the miles I logged being the designated driver while he was incapacitated. Those miles gave me the valuable experience needed to drive in this crazy state of Florida, which autowise.com, an insurance site, ranked as the “official home of the horrible driver. “ 

I had hoped that there would be a  silver lining hiding in Larry’s huge sling. Maybe Larry the Backseat Driver would morph into Larry the Happy Passenger, glad to hand over the driving to me and to enjoy the passing scenery. Confident in both my abilities and the GPS to get us safely to our destination, I would turn off Jimmy Buffett, turn on the On Broadway station on Sirius XM, and sing along with “Defying Gravity” on our way to our next doctor’s appointment or our next on-the-road adventure. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Larry still prefers to take the wheel. So I have found a different silver lining.  Safely ensconced in the passenger seat,  I get to play with my phone, read a book, or take a snooze. Larry can have his “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”  I have my license to chill.