Tag Archives: #gratitude

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.)

Happy Japchae Day!

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Thanksgiving is hands down my favorite holiday. I love celebrating with a large group of family and friends. I love reflecting on all for which I am thankful. And I love foods that we traditionally load onto our holiday table: the turkey (especially tasty when eaten while it is being carved), Ocean Spray whole cranberry sauce, my mother’s stuffing recipe, Marilyn’s World Famous Chocolate Chip Cookies, Anita’s rugelach, Adam’s vodka infused apple pie, and Hannah’s japchae.

Wait! Japchae? What is a Korean recipe that features translucent sweet potato noodles, thinly sliced beef, and vegetables doing on our Thanksgiving table?

For many years, Larry and I spent Thanksgiving with our cousins Freya and Randy. We literally had to travel over the river and through the woods to their Washington County home—which I referred to lovingly in Yiddish as in ekvelt— to share the day with at times over 30 family members and friends. Their daughter-in-law Hannah, a first-generation Korean-American, brought japchae every year, and I considered that to be as traditional as apple pie. In 2014, the holiday was especially sweet as our daughter Julie and her husband Sam had told us that they were expecting a baby in mid July. Larry and I were so grateful to harbor the secret throughout that memorable weekend. 

True, a few Thanksgivings were not exactly times of gratitude. Larry’s 78-year-old grandmother Bubbie Rose passed away on Thanksgiving morning in 1974, three and a half months after she beamed throughout our September wedding. My father passed away a week before the holiday in 2008, much to the annoyance of the congregant who was responsible for arranging for the food at the traditional Jewish gathering after the funeral. “I hope you realize this is a lousy time to ask people to help set up a shiva minyan,” she informed me. Fortunately, members of our Upstate New York shul gladly showed up. And despite our grief in both occasions, we were all grateful for their long lives and all the blessed memories we share.

In 1984 the day before our family’s planned departure to visit my Pennsylvania siblings for Thanksgiving, a section of our garage door hit Larry on the head when the spring snapped. Fortunately, Larry avoided what could have been a catastrophic injury by mere millimeters. Upon the advice of our doctor, however, we cancelled our traveling plans. A quick supermarket run to secure a turkey and all the fixings and a Blockbuster run (remember those?) for a stack of family friendly movies resulted in a quiet cozy long weekend. We were grateful for that unexpected intimate family time. 

The most sobering Thanksgiving came in 2016. As we were packing for our flight the next day to Colorado for a gathering with our son-in-law Sam’s family in Fort Collins, our daughter Julie called to tell us that our 15-month-old granddaughter was in the hospital with pneumonia in a hospital a mile from their Rocky Mountain home. By the time our plane had landed, she had been rushed to Denver’s Children’s Hospital. 

The next few days are still etched in my memory: Our wan granddaughter, connected to oxygen and IV’s, rushing to hug her Zayde. Julie and Sam holding their daughter as she watched endless repeats of Frozen on their iPad. Her wails every time a nurse entered the room. Our 120 mile round trips to the hospital while listening to the depressing news of the recent presidential elections. Adam rolling out a vodka-infused crust for the apple pie. Sharing a lovely Thanksgiving dinner with Sam’s family around a table missing three important people.

As Larry and Adam headed to the airport, I remained behind to provide needed help as Mountain Girl continued her recovery. Despite the circumstances, I have to say that week caring for my granddaughter, still connected to oxygen by a three foot hose because of the 9100 foot altitude, was precious. We sang and danced to “Wheels on the Bus” and “Rubber Duckie” and “The Alphabet Song.” We stacked toys and put together puzzles. She learned how to walk up and down the stair. I fed her so many blueberries, her favorite food, that she had numerous “blueberry blowouts,” for which Gammy was responsible. It was not the Thanksgiving we had planned. But we were thankful for modern medicine that saved her life and that provided the needed interventions, including a twice a day nebulizer, that resulted the healthy, thriving second grader she is today.

By the following year, Larry and I, who had moved to Florida that June, headed up north. Thanks to dear friends who let us “house sit” while they visited relatives for a week, we again shared a wonderful Thanksgiving with Larry’s huge extended family. Freya and Randy had passed the Thanksgiving reins to our niece Laura and her husband Paul, who had recently purchased a home in Guilderland, New York. The buffet table was laden with almost all the Shapiro traditional food except one. Hannah bypassed on making japchae. Oh well! We still had plenty to eat.

Maybe it was because airports were especially crowded on this holiday weekend. Maybe because we weren’t used to the cold. Or maybe it was because I no longer could depend on Hannah for japchae. In 2016, Larry and I decided to join a large group of friends from around the country and the world at a nearby resort. By the second year of shredded salty turkey over gluey mashed potatoes and subpar pies, our friend Peter declared that Larry and I should host a Thanksgiving potluck at our home. 

We happily agreed. Plans were going smoothly until we realized a few days before our scheduled Thursday feast that Peter and his wife Margaret were flying home on Thanksgiving Day. “I thought you Americans had all your holidays on Monday,” he said. No, Peter, I explained. Thanksgiving is ALWAYS on Thursday!

Fortunately, everyone was able to adjust their schedule, and we celebrated Thanksgiving on Ere of Yontiff—Wednesday. I prepared a 22-pound turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and my World Famous Chocolate Chip Cookies. Everyone else filled in with their own favorites. I was hoping the Hunters would bring scones and clotted cream. Instead, their contribution of two bottles of Moet & Chandon champagne worked out, as did the orchid they brought that continues to bloom. Not surprisingly, no one brought japchae.

We got to celebrate our International Thanksgiving one more time before COVID shut down the world, necessitating that Larry and I share our 2020 meal with extended family on Zoom. By 2021, however, we were up and running with the understanding that everyone bring their favorite dishes and COVID-vaccine infused arm. 

What a joy it is to know that 2022 is ushering in what I hope to be a new string of large gatherings of friends and family!

You may be reading this the day after Thanksgiving when Larry and I will be eating leftover turkey, stuffing, and apple pie. Meanwhile, we will have had what we hope will have been a wonderful day with many of our “regulars” as well as several new friends. We hope the day will be joyful and uneventful. If not, I will find reasons to be grateful—no matter what challenges pop up and even if we don’t have japchae!

Remembering wonderful past Thanksgivings, including our 1979 gathering with our family in Pennsylvania!

Dayanu

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Browsing recently at a Denver airport store on my way home to Orlando, I was greeted by the clerk. Exchanging pleasantries, I asked him how his day was going. “Counting the hours, ma’am. Just counting the hours.” “It can’t be that bad,” I replied. “I am working a fifteen hour shift in a newspaper stand in an airport, “ he said. “And this with a college degree. As I said, ‘Just counting the hours.”

Okay, so this young man was not living his dream. But all I could think of is that the clerk appeared to be the same age as a friend of mine who became a quadriplegic twenty years earlier as a result of a freak accident. “Be grateful for what you have,” I wanted to say to this total stranger. “Don’t count the hours; count your blessings.”

On Passover, we Jews celebrate the physical and spiritual redemption from slavery. Each year, we sing Dayanu, a song which lists the steps leading to our freedom. In it, we are reminded of our need—our responsibility—to be grateful for all G-d has given to us.

Yes, it is sometimes difficult to be grateful. College degrees and sometimes lead to menial job. Cars break down; toilet overflow; a bite into a hard candy results in a $3000 dollar dental bill. But as a dear friend said to me after I complained about a costly home repair, these are all First World problems.

In addition, in our highly commercial, secular world, it is sometimes difficult to be happy with just enough. We are bombarded with advertisements promising us happiness if only we purchase a new car, a new home, even a new brand of soap. We are exposed to all this noise on television, on billboards, on ever-targeted ads on the internet between our Facebook posts.

I am sure the Jews who escaped Egyptian slavery complained. Some of the kvetching is recorded in the Torah, but I can only imagine the grumblings that were not written down. “Manna that tastes like coconut cream pie again? For one night, can’t it taste like my mother’s matzoh ball soup?” Or: “Who put Moses in charge? We’ve been wandering this desert for forty years. The man can’t find his way out of a paper bag!”

The child of parents who were on different ends of the “cup half full”/cup half empty” continuum, I struggled as to whether my father’s rose colored view of the world was a better way to go than my mother’s practical but less than optimistic outlook. Whereas my father was content with his life, my mother often compared herself and our lives to others, and she saw the grass as greener in the other’s yard. “Comparison is the thief of joy,” said Theodore Roosevelt. And also, in my eyes, the thief of gratitude.

When looking for property in Florida, Larry and I made the conscious decision to downsize. We chose a smaller home that, in line with most houses in the Sunshine State, had no basement and a fairly inaccessible, extremely hot attic. We purchased the home with all its furnishings in a community whose  home owner’s association that took care of our lawn and shrubbery. As a result, we were able to  divest ourselves of much of our belongings and start over.  Once we unpacked—and gave another load of unneeded items to a local charity–we assured ourselves that we were never going back to having so much.

Despite my best intentions, however, I began to fall into my old habit of  acquiring more than we needed. The search for that one last item to complete our new home—a new outdoor seating set, a water softener, updated lighting fixtures— was taking me away from where I wanted to be: grateful for what I had.

One day, while at a salon getting my hair cut, I saw a poster with the following affirmation: “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.” And somehow that quote from Melody Beattie was the kick in the pants I needed.

Researching studies in positive psychology, I learned that those who are habitually grateful are significantly happier—and even healthier— than those who are not. One recommended method to enhance these feelings is by maintaining a gratitude diary in which one records on a regular basis three to five things for which one is grateful.

Using a beautiful floral-covered journal a dear friend had given me as a going away gift, I started ‘counting my blessings’ each night before I went to bed. Some entries were major milestones: “I saw my granddaughter crawl for the first time!” Other day’s reflections were more mundane: “Larry and I laughed our way through a great ‘Big Bang Theory’ episode.” No matter what the magnitude, I was ending my day focusing on the positive.

In the process, I have turned the focus from how many material possessions I have to how much goodness I have in my life. “Collect moments, not things” says a Hindu expression. The journal gives me the opportunity to capture those moments: savoring an Upstate New York apple, reading a book to my granddaughter, sitting on our lanai and viewing the wildlife in our pond, appreciating one more day of good health.

“If the only prayer you said in your whole life was thank you,” wrote Meister Eckhart, “that would suffice.” Or, in the word of the Passover seder, ‘Dayanu.’ Chag Sameah!