Category Archives: Family Stories

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

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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

The Four Cohens

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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.

Four Cohens
Four Cohens
Four Cohens and Partners

My Mom and Ol’ Blue Eyes

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“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 I at Coburg Village on a beautiful fall day.
My mom, in the 1930’s. No, she wasn’t a “Bobby Socker!”
Mom and Ol' Blue Eyes

Driving Mr. Larry

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“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. 

Sources:

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2006332/Back-seat-drivers-cause-seven-accidents-near-misses–chances-youre-guilty-too.html

https://www.tampabay.com/news/transportation/2019/08/20/floridians-complain-about-bad-drivers-more-than-any-other-state-study-says/

https://wtov9.com/features/drive-safe/6-polite-ways-to-deal-with-a-backseat-driver#

We still have it, as long as we are away from our car!
Still happy after 50 years!

The Weather by Frances Cohen

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This story was written by my mother, Frances Cohen, in ~2006, after she and my father, Bill Cohen, moved into Coburg Village, an independent living facility in Rexford, New York. A natural storyteller, my mother joined a writing group and wrote down many of her stories for posterity. It is a joy to share them with you!

The weather plays an important part of our life. At times, we wish that we could change the weather, but as we have learned it is one of the things in life we cannot change. 

Sometimes prayers help. On two occasions, our prayers were answered when we planned outdoor receptions. One was for the retirement party Bill and I planned at our cottage on Lake Champlain during the summer of 1983. The second was at the wedding reception for my granddaughter that was held on my daughter and son-in-law’s front lawn in Clifton Park in October 2007. At both parties, the weather was perfect: sunny, 72 degrees, with no wind. We considered it a miracle! 

Our prayers did not work when Bill, my daughter Marilyn and I had to travel from Keeseville to Rockland County for our son Jay and our future daughter-in-law Leslie’s engagement party in December 1970. A Nor’easter started the day we were supposed to leave, so we delayed the trip until the next morning in hopes the weather would improve. Unfortunately, the snow only got heavier. By the time we arrived in Albany, the New York Thruway was closed. Determined not t miss the party, we decided to take Route Nine for the rest of the trip. The roads and visibility were terrible. Atone point, Bill stopped at a railroad crossing as the gate was down and the lights were flashing. The snow was so thick that Marilyn, who was sitting in the back seat, thought we were actually on the tracks and began screaming in fear. When we all calmed down, we continued on the trip. We arrived in Pearl River at 11 o’clock at night, sixteen hours after leaving Keeseville for what should have been a four-to-five-hour trip. It was one of the most difficult trips we ever made. In 1980, the year before we retired, our cousins invited us to visit them in Florida. When the day of our flight arrived, we left our cottage on Lake Champlain to drive to Montreal, the closest airport. When we crossed the border to Montreal, the snow was piled so deep that drifts were at places two stories high. As we crossed over a bridge near the airport, Bill lost control of the car, and we did a complete 360-degree turn, landing in a soft snowbank. Fortunately, there was no damage, so we were able to continue the trip to the airport. When we arrived in Florida, it was 85 degrees, and our cousins welcomed us in summer attire. Bill and I looked at each other and said, “This is paradise!” We couldn’t change the weather, but we could change our location. Right then and there, we decided that before next winter, we would sell our business, have a going-out-of-business sale, and spend our winters in Florida and summer at our cottage by the lake. 

We were fortunate to be snowbirds for many years. It was the best of both worlds: Beautiful summers on Lake Champlain and warm, balmy winters in Florida. We thought we had it made—until Hurricane Wilma hit in 2005. 

At that point, Bill and I were living full time in a condominium in Wynmoor, an over-fifty housing complex in Coconut Creek, Florida. The Weather Channel and local officials had warned us in advance of the incoming hurricane, and we had made sure to purchase water, canned food, and extra batteries. The night the hurricane hit, we did a lot of praying. The winds and rain were very strong, and we were very frightened. We were so thankful that our building had been spared any serious damage. We woke up to no electricity and no air conditioning in the 85-degree heat. For the first few days, we stayed in our condominium, living on the canned goods that we had purchased before the hurricane. When the electricity finally came back in our condominium, we decided to go food shopping for milk, eggs, and other food to restock our pantry and refrigerator. At that point, we were able to see the actual extent of the damage in the area. We saw lots of fallen trees, some of which had crashed into parked cars. With all the wires down and traffic lights out, getting to even the supermarket was almost impossible. 

When we finally got to Publix, the store was dark and eerie as it was powered by back-up generators. We learned as the week went on that thousands of trees had been destroyed in our residential area. More tragically, a number of other residential areas, including Hawaiian Gardens, the original complex we had moved out of only four years before, were so badly damaged that they were unlivable and eventually had to be completely torn down. 

In the middle of all this stress, when I was getting in the car to take another trip to the supermarket a week after the hurricane hit, I caught my foot on the curb while trying to get out of our parked car and broke a bone in my leg. That was the final straw. Our children felt strongly that we needed to get out of Florida and its hurricanes and move back up north. By spring, 2006, we were settled in Coburg Village, four miles from my daughter and son-in-law. At Coburg, we don’t need to drive, as the shuttle takes us everywhere. Our children are close enough so they can go shopping for us if the weather is too bad. So, when bad weather comes, we are able to just look out the window and enjoy our cozy apartment. Now we can be thankful for the snow so that grandchildren can ski, the rain that makes our flowers and gardens grown, and the beautiful sun that makes us all happy. 

The photo of me with a rubber chicken was taken in Keesevile around 1954 after a bad snowstorm. No idea why I had a rubber chicken!

My mom, the storyteller, with her beloved Bill, 1990.
Mom and I at Coburg Village on a beautiful fall day.

Can you hear me now?

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It’s genetic. It’s a life-time achievement award. It’s inevitable. 

Choose all or some or one of the above. Along with cataracts, high cholesterol, worn-out knees, and numerous aches and pains that come with age, we can add hearing loss.

According to a 2021 study by the National Institute for Deafness and Other Communication Disorder, approximately 28.8 million American adults need hearing aids. Unfortunately, only one in six does something about it. My husband decided to be one of them. 

Larry’s problems began a few years back. His inability to hear had become a source of irritation to me, for our family, for our friends. He had to crank up the television, and his listening skills had diminished. After almost fifty years of marriage, maybe his “selective hearing” had become more attuned. But he was missing words and phrases. A recent test at an audiologist had come back showing he was on the verge of needing them. 

Finally, when we came back from Colorado in August, 2023. he decided it was time. Choosing a hearing center that many in our community recommended, Larry underwent a thorough one-hour examination and got the expected news: he had “moderate” hearing loss.

Two weeks, Larry was fitted with a pair of hearing aids. He adjusted fairly quickly, and his “selective listening” didn’t seem to be as much as a problem.

While his hearing improved, mine tanked. The volume of Larry’s voice, which was always on the quiet side, went down a couple of decibels, meaning I was constantly asking him to speak up. Also, with his new bionic ears, he could turn down the television volume so I could’t hear it. He began to complain that the music on Alexa was blaring. He suggested that maybe I needed hearing aids.

I fought it. First of all, I had been tested eighteen months earlier by the same audiologist at the same time that Larry had, and I was told that my hearing was “borderline. “

Besides, I already could not keep track of my iPhone, my Apple Watch, my Kindle, my keys, my Solivita pass, and my purse. I could not imagine adding another thing to my life that I had to find.

What concerned me most was that I remembered all too well my father’s experiences with hearing aids. When those blobs of plastic were in his ears, they buzzed. At least once, he ruined them when he jumped into a swimming pool. When he took the out, goodness knows where we would find them. On his dresser? Next to his favorite chair? Under the clothes line? 

I especially recalled the day that Aunt Pearl, who lived in Long Island, came up to visit Mom and Dad in Clifton Park. Both of them wore hearing aids, and my mother was on her way to getting them. Brian, my cousin who drove Aunt Pearl up to Saratoga County, escaped to another room while the three of them yelled to each other to communicate. Despite the distance, Brian and I heard the distinct buzzing of a hearing aide coming from my father.

“Dad, do you need to turn down your hearing aids?” I asked. 

“No,” he replied. “The damn things don’t work. I put them in my pocket.”

Oy! This is what I had to look forward to? 

But Larry was due for his six month check-up, and he strongly urged me to make my own appointment. 

“I am sure I don’t need hearing aids,” I said. “You just talk too low.” But for Shalom Bayit, for peace in our house, I signed up for a consultation. 

I thought I would breezed through the test, but I was shocked to find out that my hearing loss was “moderate to severe.” For the next two weeks, my prescription was being filled, I felt sad and—well—old!

Amazingly, I adjusted very quickly. I immediately noticed the difference: I could hear! Okay, maybe a little too loudly. But the world became hearable. My constant refrain, “Could you repeat that?” was gone. I could go to a movie or show and actually hear what was being said.

My fear of losing them also proved groundless. Between the over-the-ear microphone and the tiny receivers that go fairly deep into my ear canal, I haven’t lost them. They also are a little more waterproof than I anticipated as accidentally wearing them into the shower or even into the pool would not be a disaster

Finally, being a woman has its perks. Larry doesn’t have the hair to cover them, so they are pretty obvious. It takes a much sharper eye to detect the tiny wires in my ears when it is covered with hair.

Rather than being embarrassed or ashamed, I am grateful that my hearing is correctable, that we have the resources to make the purchase,  and that hearing aids are so much better than those huge things my parents wore.

A Turkey-infused Concert Experience

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As we have done since our Mountain Girl was born in 2015, Larry and I are enjoying time in Summit County, Colorado, where we rent each summer to escape the Florida heat and to enjoy family time.

Each summer, we look forward to attending performances of the National Repertory Orchestra. Eighty young professional musicians are selected for the summer symphony orchestra. Along with performances at the Riverwalk Center in Breckinridge, the talented performers participate in free “pop-up” concerts offered throughout the county. We have fortunately been been able attend several NRO events throughout our stay.

On July 8, 2023, Larry and I brought our then eight-year-old granddaughter to her first concert performance, the NRO’s pop concert. Rather than classical music, the pop concert includes lighter fare, including songs from Broadway and the silver screen. In the days before the event, we explained to her about the protocols for the concert: her need to sit quietly, to be attentive, to applaud at appropriate times, and to avoid any actions that would distract from other concert goers. Outside of asking if there would be a ‘half time’ (she and her father are huge Denver Nuggets fans), our Mountain Girl was well prepared. She even stood up and yelled “Bravo!” at the appropriate times.

The same could not be said for the eighty-something man that occupied the seat next to her. He and his younger companion settled in moments before the concert began. During the opening number, the rousing theme from the Raiders of the Lost Ark, the gentleman opened up a plastic shopping bag, rustled some smaller plastic bags, and took out a chunk of turkey. He gnawed on it through Raiders and continued through Jaws. By the third number, my beloved theme from Schindler’s List, the smell of turkey was wafting around us. During Star Wars, he added another noisy addition to his repertoire: a chocolate chip cookie. At least its delicious aroma masked the turkey.

I was not the only audience who was annoyed. The woman in front of me had turned around several times to give the evil eye to the offender. He was oblivious.

At “half time,” I complimented our granddaughter on her behavior and also quietly explained that the turkey- touting twit to her left was NOT a typical concert goer. As she and “Zayde” headed to the concession stand, the elderly gentleman and his companion also left for a break.

Leaning forward, I tapped the shoulder of the woman in front of me. “I noticed that you too were disturbed by that man’s behavior,” I said. 

“I am the conductor for a Nevada high school orchestra,” she said. “I’ve never encountered such rudeness!” She headed off to find an usher so there was no repeat performance during the second half of the program. 

While she was searching for help, the two gentlemen returned. I overheard the younger man’s commenting on his companion’s ill-timed dinner, especially calling out the fact that the smell of turkey had permeated our entire section.

“No worries!” he exclaimed. “During the second half, I brought these individual apple sauce containers with pop-off tops that won’t smell as much.”

At this point, I lost it. “No!” I yelled. “You are not going to take another bite! We brought our eight year old granddaughter to her first concert with rules as to what was expected of her. Your chomping away at turkey and cookies and rattling plastic bags has set a terrible example! No more food!” 

Luckily the man actually listened. He didn’t pull out as much as a breath mint during the second half. We got to enjoy the themes from The Wizard of Oz, The Lion King, and The Godfather in peace. And we were able to fully enjoy selections from Fiddler on the Roof, especially when a clarinet solo by the conductor included he sounds of the shofar— Tikiah! T’Ruah! Shevarim— the section played by the illustrious Issac Stern in the movie version. of the JerryBock/Sheldon Harnock classic.

Later in the season, we took our granddaughter along with her parents to a performance of The Lion King. The Disney animated classic was shown in its entirety on the big screen above the orchestra as 80 musicians, lead by conductor Jason Seber, performed the score in precise timing with every scene.” Once you watch a movie accompanied by the power of a live orchestra, you’ll be spoiled for life,” wrote Shauna Farnell in an NRO article in July 2023. She was right. We loved it!

During intermission, I was talking to an usher and in passing mentioned I was enjoying this concert without the disturbance of any meals outside of what Simba and Nala were eating. The usher was fully aware of the July 8th kerfuffle, as she herself was monitoring the activity in Row H after the high school music teacher had complained. 

Although she was unable to attend this year’s Pops concert, our Mountain Girl was she joined us for the NRO’s showing of Star Wars: The New Hope, again replete with the symphony lead by Jason Seber replacing the entire musical score. The Force was with us, as we enjoyed every minute. 

Sources

Farnell, Shauna. “The National Repertory Orchestra presents Disney’s ‘The Lion King’ in Concert Live to Film.” www.nro.org website. July 23, 2023.

Photo courtesty of Wikipedia Commons

Another meaning to “Through the glass darkly”!

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In ancient times, Jewish brides may have brought into marriage a nedunyah, or dowry, “those assets of the wife which she of her own free will entrusts to her husband’s responsibility.” This could take the form of money, slaves, or cattle. As Larry and I look forward to our fiftieth anniversary this fall, I reflect back on the “dowry” I brought into our marriage: a collection of Warner Brothers Looney Tunes glasses. 

Larry and I announced our engagement to our families on October 6, 1973. Fresh out of graduate school, Larry was working at his parents’ store, Shapiro’s of Schuylerville, making an astounding $78 a week. Meanwhile, I was in my second year of teaching high school English in a suburb of Albany, with a starting salary of $5200

 We obviously were not coming into this marriage as “well off.” But we had a plan for starting our new household. Who needed a wedding registry, where we could list china and silverware that we could never use? I just needed to stock up on free glassware from the nearby hamburger joint. 

My apartment in Rensselaer, New York, was a short distance up Route 9 from a Carrols. The burger chain, which was founded in 1960 in Syracuse, New York, by Herbert N. Slotnik, was viewed as “incredibly popular as an alternative to 

McDonalds,” with over 150 outlets, mostly in upstate New York and Pennsylvania.

During our engagement, Carrols was running a promotion sponsored by the Pepsi Corporation. For the price of a large soda product, each customer received a Looney Tunes glass with Warner Brothers’ characters painted on the outside. Daffy Duck! Bugs Bunny! Elmer Fudd! And, over the course of several months, fifteen more glasses were released. My quest was to get all eighteen options, which was a great deal of Diet Pepsi. 

Each week, whatever day the newest one was up for sale, I would stop by, order a Diet Pepsi, slurp it up, and then bring the prize home. To be honest, I can’t even remember if I purchased the their signature Club Burger! Six glasses in, I wasn’t even bothering to drink the soda. I dumped it out, wash out the glass when I got home, and tucked it away in a cupboard.

After our September 1974 wedding, we moved into our tiny apartment in Guilderland. Thanks to a bridal shower and gifts, we had a kitchen stocked with a Corelle dinnerware set for eight, Oneida silverware, Farberware pots, and several pieces of the classical Corningware with the blue flowers. And, thanks to Carrols, we had over two dozen Looney Tunes glasses, many with duplicates. 

We did receive a lovely set of glassware from Tiffany’s, with an S engraved on each one. They went onto the top shelf of our apartment’s galley kitchen. Why would we use those when The Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote could fight it out at our tiny kitchen table? Beep! Beep!

Bugs and the Gang came with us to our first home and, two years later, to our second. By the time he was five, Adam was old enough to graduate from sippy cups to Sylvester. Julie progressed to Petunia Pig three years later. Of course, a few met their untimely death on our kitchen floor, but we managed to hold on to many of them. About fifteen years ago, I found some replacements at a secondhand store. Again, more were lost to breakage, but we still had five remaining when we made the move to Florida in 2015. 

By then, the painted characters had faded, and the glasses were cloudy. The former owners of our Kissimmee home had left a set of glasses in the cupboard, and we opted to use those for every day use. Our Looney Tunes treasures only came out on special occasions, and we only lost one over eight years, until the college football playoff in January 2023.

We had met our friends Joel and JoAnn Knudson, from a tiny town in North Dakota, many years earlier at a Jamaican resort. That began a close friendship that we maintained through a few more trips to Jamaica, a visit they made to Albany just before Hurricane Sandy, and time together in Florida. We were thrilled when they purchased a home in our 55+ community. 

Soon after their move, the Knudsons, lifelong fans of North Dakota State University’s football team, were looking forward to the January 5, 2023, championship match between their beloved Bisons and their arch rivals, South Dakota State University. As their television set hadn’t arrived yet, we invited them over to watch the game on our big screen. 

At the end of the first quarter, the two teams were tied 7-7. By halftime, however, NDSU was behind 14-7. Time for refreshments! We replenished the chips and dip. I offered Joel a cold beer in one of our favorite Looney Tunes glasses, Bugs Bunny. 

“Get that @#?$ jack rabbit out of here!” Joel yelled. 

How was I supposed to know that the SDSU’s mascot was a jackrabbit??

I quickly transferred the Yuengling into a less threatening Elmer Fudd. According to Joel, however, the damage was done. The Bisons faced a blistering 45 to 21 defeat by the despised Jackrabbits. The Knudsons went home disappointed; both Bugs and Elmer went into my dishwasher to see another day. 

Two days later, I was reading the newspaper on my kitchen counter.. As I turned the page, my hand brushed against my glass of iced tea. Seconds later, our beloved Bugs Bunny met his demise on my tile floor. Larry and I refer to it as “The Knudson Curse.”

Recently, with our Looney Tunes supply down to four glasses and the former owners “gift” set of glasses etched with cloudiness that no amount of Cascade or vinegar would remove, I pulled down the Tiffany glasses we got for our wedding. “What are we saving them for?” I asked Larry. After fifty years, the beautiful set are being used for everything from an orange juice to an Old Fashioned.

In retrospect, using that now collector’s set of Looney Tunes was not such a great idea. According to Tamara Rubin’s Lead Safe Mama webpage, tests run on athe paint on a sample Looney Tunes glass revealed that it contained 71,800 parts per million of lead, 800 times more than the 90 ppm considered unsafe for use! “Please do NOT let children in your life use them,” Rubin wrote in her 2/19/2019 article “I personally would not use something like this in my home for any purpose!” Yikes! For fifty years, I had been exposing my family and friends to high contents of lead, caladium, and arsenic. To quote Sylvester, “Thufferin’ Thuccotash!”

What happened to Carrols? By the mid 1970’s, Slotnick saw the writing on the wall as competition by sheer numbers from McDonalds and Burger King dwarfed his company. “He figured if you can’t beat ’em, join ‘em,” Alan Morrell wrote in a 10/25/2021 article for the Democrat & Chronicle. Slotnick cut a deal with Burger King in which all his restaurants would be converted into the home of the “Big Whopper.”

But the Looney Tunes “vintage” glassware continue to thrive on internet, where collectors can pay anywhere from $16.99 for Porky Pig on Amazon to $300 for a complete set of 18 on Ebay. I say, I say, maybe my Foghorn Leghorn still has some life in him yet!

Sources:

Morell, Alan. “Rochester loved the Looney Tunes glasses and Club Burger. Whatever happened to Carrols?” Democrat and Chronicle. October 25, 2022.

Pacheco, George. “Top 10 Most Iconic Looney Tunes Catchphrases.” Watchmojo.[Date unknown]

Rubin, Tamera. “1973 Warner Brothers Pepsi Collector Series Daffy Duck Drinking Glass: 71,800 ppm Lead (90 ppm is unsafe for kids.)” Lead Safe Mama. February 19, 2019.

Larry and I on our wedding day in 1974.. Who needs fancy crystal when we have Looney Tunes glasses?

Yes, I am a woman now….

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In today’s crazy world, it is hard to find things for which to be thankful. So I have been trying to find gratitude in the small things: a FaceTime with my children and grandchildren; a good cup of coffee with a piece of warm challah; a special moment with Larry. Recently, I reached back fifty four years to remember an evening that still holds a special place in my heart 

 In 1969, my brother Jay, who was going for his Masters at Cornell University , invited me out to spend the weekend.Jay arranged for me to stay with Leslie, his girlfriend—and his future wife—on the Ithaca College campus.

As a freshman at Albany State, and I was looking forward to the weekend.What made it especially exciting was that Jay and Leslie had arranged for double dates for both Friday and Saturday. 

After bringing me back from the bus stop to his dorm, Jay introduced me to Date One: his roommate Charlie. My first impression of him was not favorable; he looked like a computer nerd and acted like he was roped into an evening for which he had little interest. We all agreed to meet back in Jay’s room after dinner. 

I guess Charlie’s first impression of me was not any better. Charlie was a no-show. Leslie and Jay insisted that it was Charlie, but I was hurt and embarrassed. In my mind, I believed he was turned off by my own nerdiness and my before-contact-lens-coke-bottle glasses. “He probably took one look and headed for the hills,” I thought.

Despite the rough start, the three of us enjoyed our evening and the next day. I already loved Leslie and knew she would be in our lives for a long time. Saturday night, I got ready for Date Two with a great deal of trepidation. Would I be stood up again? Thankfully, Jay’s choice for Date Two made up for Charlie tenfold.. Denny was a Robert Redford doppelgänger: tall, blonde, with a British accent to add to the allure.

Our plans for Saturday evening were to see Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, who was my favorite musical group at the time.I was not alone in my passion. They were one of a very select group of touring acts to achieve prominence worldwide.In 1968 , they earned six consecutive gold records and sold more 45 rpm records than any other recording act-including the Beatles. They played a command performance at the White House for Prince Charles and Princess Anne by special invitation of the president.I had worn out my 78 rpm recording of their first eponymous album, swooning to “Woman, Woman;” “This Girl Is A Woman Now,” and “Young Girl.” Seeing them on stage, live, with handsome, sweet, attentive Denny at my side was special.

When Denny said goodnight, he gave me a gentle kiss—a kiss I still remember for its compassion and kindness. Did Jay tell him about the Charlie catastrophe? Or did Denny just sense my vulnerability and lack of confidence? I never saw Denny again, but I will never forget that cold night in Ithaca, New York where a kind stranger made me feel like a beautiful “woman woman,” with no cheating in her heart.

Move ahead to July 2023. An email blast from one of our social clubs announced that Gary Puckett and the Union Gap on was performing in our 55+ community’s ballroom on Sunday, November 6. Despite Larry’s ambivalence (he barely remembered the group), I scooped up two tickets for the 8 pm show. I was psyched, despite the fact that Gary Puckett had just turned 81 two weeks before the concert. Judging from his website, he didn’t look like the handsome young man in the group’s trademark Civil War uniform I knew back then, but—heck— I was also a little older looking myself.

We arrived a half an hour before the show and took our seats.Soon, the seats next to us were taken by my friend Maryellen. She introduced us to her husband Ed. We commented on the large crowd who had come to see the the show. “I am looking forward to this,” Ed said. “The last time I saw Gary Puckett and the Union Gap was at Cornell in 1969.” I gasped and stared at him. “I was at the same concert,” I told him. 

At 8 pm, the lights dimmed, the three “Union Gappers” took their places on the stage. As the introductory chords played, Gary Puckett burst onto the stage, singing “Lady Willpower.” I am not sure if he asked the audience to sing along to warm us up or to rest his old vocal cords. but we all fell right into his warmth and charm.

Gary Puckett still had a great voice, albeit a little choppier and less smooth than I remembered.He missed a few high notes and forgot some of the lyrics to a song by the Beach Boys. He turned to the audience, apologized, and asked“So, how is your memory doing?” The audience roared with laughter.

A little over an hour later, the group finished off with “Young Girl,” which is how I felt that evening. There was an opportunity to wait in a long line for a picture, but Larry, who had enjoyed the concert more than I hoped, agreed that I probably would be walking home if I stayed.

So, I am thankful. Thankful for that memorable evening in Ithaca. Thankful that Jay married Leslie and gave me a much beloved sister-of-my-heart.Thankful that Gary Puckett was still alive and kicking and entertaining the crowd. And, most of all, thankful that Larry—not Charlie or even Denny—was sitting next to me. As we walked to our car, my husband of almost 50 years, gave me a not-so-gentle kiss. Yes, that girl is a woman now, and she knows how to live.

Weathering Tempest Ian; Marilyn expresses gratitude.

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As hurricane season ramps up in Florida, I remember last year’s Hurricane Ian.

Five days before our community in Central Florida was predicted to feel the effects of Hurricane Ian, phone calls, texts, emails, and Facebook posts expressing concern for our safety began arriving  from around the country and the world. 

Arizona: “Is the hurricane going to Florida near you?”

South Carolina: “Thinking of you and this crazy hurricane path.” 

Vancouver: “Sounds like you guys could be getting some potentially nasty weather!!”

England: “Stay safe!  Bit of a bugger these hurricanes.”

Massachusetts: “You still have time to fly to our house in Boston.”

New York: “Where shall we send the flowers?”

When my husband  Larry and I left New York State, we were glad to leave snow and cold and blizzards behind. We also were fully aware that moving to Florida meant we would face the possibility of hurricanes. Therefore, when looking for a home, we decided to steer away from the Florida coasts, which historically took the brunt of these storms.

Not Our First

We immediately had fallen in love with 55+ active adult community south of Orlando because of what it offered. Furthermore, the homes were well-built, with underground electrical wires and excellent drainage.

Our first experience with Florida hurricanes was with Irma in 2017, and that had given us more confidence in our ability to withstand these mega-storms. This confidence was further boosted by experience of people who have lived in our community for over twenty years. In a text thread with fellow SOL Writers, one of the long-timers assured another member, who was experiencing her first Florida hurricane. “I’m one of those pioneers who have weathered several hurricanes here,” wrote Kathy Glascott. “Actually, that should be a selling point for Solivita – the community that survives hurricanes well! “As I learned later, all the homes were built in compliance with 2002 Florida Building Code(FBC), which mandated that new construction be able to withstand hurricane-force winds and feature shutters or impact-resistant glass in all openings.

Prep for the Storm

We also knew how to prepare for the storm. Immediately following Rosh Hashanah, we went into full “A-Hurricane-Is-Coming” mode. We made a quick run to the supermarket to add more canned food to our already full panty. We brought inside all potential flying projectiles: lanai furniture, plants, lawn ornaments, and hoses. We filled empty orange juice jugs saved just for this type of emergency with water. For extra measure, I filled the bathtub as well as several big pots. We even squeezed in our fourth COVID vaccine booster shots, figuring if we had any side effects we were already stuck inside. 

Then it was a waiting game as Ian was getting larger and more ominous by the hour. The Weather Channel (TWC) showed a cone that covered all of Florida. Larry kept track of the storm in the office, switching between The Weather Channel, the local news, and some mindless programming to ease the stress. I followed Ian’s path on the television set in our kitchen, where I was working on a Mixbook family album and the final edits for my upcoming book. (Yes, I really did this. Maybe I feared that the projects needed to be completed before we lost electricity for goodness knows how long.)

 Taking It In Stride

By 5 pm Wednesday, Hurricane Ian had touched down near Punta Gorda, about 120 miles away from our home, with 140 mph sustained winds.The scenes on the news in the hours that followed were terrifying to watch: massive flooding, destroyed buildings; boats piled on the shore. TWC meteorologists were in the middle of it. At one point, Jim Cantore was nearly hit in the head with flying debris. All I could think was, Is it worth losing your life to report on this? Thankfully one of the men in charge told him to find shelter. As faithinhumanity later tweeted: “I’m curious. When applying for this position of field weatherman was it the first line under job requirements or was it buried in the fine print ‘Must be Suicidal.’” (sic)

Meanwhile, our community was feeling the impact of Hurricane Ian. The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the small pond behind our house into a river. Fortunately, the water stayed well below our lanai, spreading north to south behind the homes on either side of us.

By eight p.m., darkness was closing in. We FaceTimed with our children, assuring them—especially our seven-year-old granddaughter— that we were fine and safe. Larry and I each finished off a big bowl of ice cream, reasoning that our half gallon of Breyer’s Vanilla Bean would melt if the power went off. On the last minute advice of our friends in England, we transferred a couple of bottles of white wine to the frig. We did a last minute check to ensure that all our other emergency gear—candles, matches, crank-up radios, smaller flashlights, cork screw, were in working order.

Oops

My only moment of concern was when I realized that almost every one of the ten D battery in the house was dead. Larry and I salvaged enough for our two larger flashlights and added D batteries to our shopping list.

As the wind and rain pummeled our house, we watched more television, grateful that we had not yet lost electricity. Exhausted, we went to sleep near midnight. Both of us woke up during the night for updates using both the twenty-first century method of checking the internet and the old-fashioned tried-and true-method of opening our front door. So far, so good. 

Minimal Impact

Larry and I woke up at 7 a.m. to the news hat  Ian had been downgraded to a tropical storm  but was still producing strong rains, heavy rains, and winds up to 65 mph. Later that morning, as the storm headed northeast to wreak more destruction, we realized that we were very fortunate.Our house and immediate property was undamaged. The power had remained on. The pond remained well below our lanai. By late Thursday afternoon, the rain and wind had stopped, and the sun was peaking through the remnant clouds. We spent the rest of the day restoring our house to pre-Ian condition.

Larry and I woke up Friday morning to beautiful sunshine. A long walk through our neighborhood showed little damage. Over the next few days, we learned that a few trees had been uprooted, some houses had sustained damage to their lanais, and low-lying roads had been flooded. Our initial assessment, however, proved to be correct. Our community had been minimally impacted by Hurricane Ian. 

Unfortunately, that is not true for so many others. Property data and analytics provider CoreLogic projected storm surge and flood losses from Hurricane Ian to run between $41 billion and $70 billion. As of October 17, over 117 Floridians had lost their lives. Half the deaths were attributed to individuals who chose not to leave their homes despite evacuation orders. Many others, however, lost their homes and lives in areas where experts called the flooding “unprecedented,” “historic,” and potentially ’a 500-year flood event.’

Gratitude

Exactly a week almost to the minute when we were completing final preparations for Hurricane Ian, Larry and I were observing Yom Kippur with fellow congregants of Congregation Shalom Alechiem. We recited the powerful U­netanah Tokef prayer which asks “Who shall live and who shall die, who shall perish by water and who by fire?” We had survived, and we are grateful. And we are grateful for all who were in touch with us throughout the storm.  Massachusetts, we hope to visit without a hurricane! Albany, I love roses, which I will place in my still-intact dining room.

In one of my zany, punch drunk moments before Hurricane Ian hit, I took this picture with my emergency provisions: a head lamp, a half gallon of ice cream, and a bottle of wine (which we saved for AFTER the hurricane passed us by.)