Tag Archives: #parenting

Does history repeat itself? Am I like my parents?

In 2015, Larry and I sold our home in Upstate New York and relocated to a community in Central Florida. As Larry and I have fully embraced our new life in the Sunshine State, let us compare our retirement life near Orlando to my parents’ retirement years near Fort Lauderdale.

When the last of the Cohen children headed for college, my parents spent a couple of weeks each winter in Florida. When they retired, they sold the house in Keeseville and moved into their cottage on Lake Champlain. They escaped to Florida for two or three months in the dead of winter, splitting their time between short-term rentals and relatives’ pull-out couches. In time, they purchased a one-bedroom condo in Hawaiian Gardens, a complex in Lauderdale Lakes that they had heard about through a friend who lived at the complex.

After years of living in a community with lots of snow and with few Jewish people, they thrived in the sunshine and in the company of Yiddishkeit, fellow Jews who had moved to the Sunshine State from New York City and Long Island. Their lives fell into a pattern. They shopped at Publix and went to their doctors’ appointments in the morning. By noon, they joined all the other retirees by the small community pool. The women splashed around in the water while the men kibitzed on their beach chairs under large umbrellas. The conversation consisted of bad jokes, condo gossip, politics, and discussions as to which restaurants offered the best early bird specials. My mother had grown up speaking Yiddish to her parents, and my father knew a few expressions, so they started a popular Yiddish Club that met once a week. Dad played poker; Mom went to flea markets with friends.

Outside of my father’s occasional game of golf, my parents got their exercise walking back and forth to the pool. Deerfield Beach was only a half an hour away, but my father hated the sun, the heat, and the sand. As a result, my mother, who didn’t drive in Florida, limited her visits to the ocean to when her children could take her when we visited.

Hawaiian Gardens offered entertainment in the clubhouse, usually a singer or a comedian who had worked on the Borscht Belt. The performers weren’t paid a great deal, many were a little beyond their prime, and the audience could be downright cruel. During one of our visits, a woman singer

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was belting out Broadway tunes. When she asked if the audience would like her to do an encore, one of the residents yelled out, “No! You’re terrible! Get off the stage!”

Larry and I flew down at least once a year and joined them in their routine. In the morning, I would take my mother to the supermarket or the flea market. At noon, we headed to the pool. At three o’clock, no matter how beautiful the weather, we all went upstairs to get ready to leave their apartment by four o’clock for that day’s early bird special. The meals varied in quality, but there were tons of food with enough leftovers, extra bread, lemon slices, and a few Sweet ’n Low packets to take home for the next day’s lunch. Even when they relocated to a larger condo, their routine remained the same. And their lives always included visits from relatives and friends from New York as well as get-togethers with new friends they had made.

Although we enjoyed our visits, Larry and I could not picture ourselves living the sedentary East Coast Florida condo life that my parents enjoyed. When we moved to our adult active community in Central Florida, we felt we had found our own slice of heaven. Our home sat on a large scenic lot with plenty of room for family and friends to visit. Our community had two community recreational centers where I could take exercise classes and swim laps. Larry could play pickleball. We had miles of neighborhood streets where we could take long walks and longer bike rides. Many clubs and groups offered us innumerable ways to meet people from around the country and the world. Many of the activities revolved around the synagogue and the Shalom Club, but we also participated in club activities offered by groups with ties to Italy, England, the Caribbean, and Western Upstate New York. We had a full, diverse life.

Once we lived here for a few months, however, I realized how much we have in common with my parents. Has it been that different? We head to the pickleball courts, the pool, and fitness classes in the morning. Then we plan our doctors’ appointments and our trip to Publix in the afternoon. Flipped schedule, but…. We often head to our favorite restaurant by four o’clock so we can beat the crowds. Recent entertainment included a headliner from the Sixties whose toupee and fancy tux didn’t cover the fact that his body and voice were not what they were fifty years ago. The ocean is only ninety minutes away, but we don’t feel like fighting the traffic. We share a great deal of time with our family and our old friends from around the country. And, like my parents, we escape the summer heat by spending time in Frisco, Colorado. It’s not Lake Champlain, but at 9100 feet it certainly beats Florida’s summers.

Both of our children have visited us in our home in Florida. They and their families have repeatedly told us they were glad that we are so happy here. However, I doubt if either of them or their families would select the lifestyle we have chosen. Our daughter Julie and her husband Sam love living in the Rockies, where they have mountains, forests, and plenty of trails available for hiking and skiing. Our son Adam and his wife love living in San Francisco, enjoying all that wonderful city and California have to offer. I hope wherever my children live, they will enjoy sunny skies, good health, and lots of

activities to keep busy. Most importantly, I hope they find joy in wherever life takes them.

In her eulogy to Grandma Fran, Julie spoke of my mother’s legacy. “She taught me about the woman I’d like to be, one filled with love, generosity, wisdom, wit, empathy, and a belief that we can create our own happiness in life by searching for the blessings.” That is the life my mother, “Frances Fradel” Cohen, lived with her “Dear Bill.” May their memories— and the memories they shared with all who knew and loved them—be a blessing.

A version of this article originally appeared in the July 2017 issue of the Heritage Florida Jewish News, a weekly subscription-based newspaper in Central Florida.

A version of this article originally appeared in the July 2017 issue of the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

Hat Tricks, or All’s Well That Ends Well

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“I’m organized. I just can’t find anything.” Saying on CJ Bella Co. Tea Towel

Spending a good part of last summer in Colorado with our six-year-old granddaughter reaped incredibly wonderful moments for my husband Larry and me. The first hugs after a year of seeing her only on Zoom because of the pandemic. Reading her books and playing Candy Land and War and Pete’s Birthday Party. Having her knock on the door of our rental at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning with a newspaper in her hand and her announcement, “I am here for breakfast.” Extending my stay so I was able to join my daughter Julie and son-in-law Sam in walking her to her first day of first grade. I made enough memories to almost sustain me until we can see her again.

What was not incredibly wonderful was keeping track of all the items our six-year-old dynamo left behind. Larry and I had rescued her baseball butterfly hat from the local recreational center’s lost and found. Julie found her lost raincoat at her Fun Club two weeks after my granddaughter had left it there. In the meantime, Julie had to buy another one in a larger size. It was a little big, but Summit County was getting above average rain in July, and there was no choice.

Both Julie and Sam dealt with the lost-and-found-problem quite calmly to a point. But when Julie realized that their daughter’s favorite hat was missing the day before they were to leave for their planned one-week rafting trip, well, Julie lost it—her cool that is!

The first we heard about the missing hat was on the Sunday morning before their trip.

“Come over for pancakes,” Julie’s text read. “And can you check your condo to see if you have the butterfly hat?”

Yes, our granddaughter was wearing a hat on Friday. She had it in the car when we drove down to Main Street for some bubble tea at the Next Page Book Store. In the picture I had taken of her sitting on Zayde’s lap listening to a story in the town promenade, she was hatless. But I vaguely remember taking the floppy hat festooned with butterflies and dragon flies from her outstretched hand before she hung upside down from the ropes at the playground in Walter Byron Park. I thought I had stuffed it in my pocket and returned it safely when we drove her home.

But it wasn’t in their house. And it did not appear to be in our condo. Or in our car. Or at the condo’s pool area. When we arrived at their house that morning, Julie was flipping her oatmeal pancakes with obvious annoyance.

“I can’t believe that people don’t keep track of her things when they are responsible for watching her,” she said, digging her barbs into both her parents and poor Sam. “First one hat; then a raincoat, now another hat!.Doesn’t anyone ever check to see if she has left anything behind?”

Even though I was thinking, “Maybe the child needs to be responsible!” I kept my mouth closed. Besides, Julie’s guilt trip was working. After breakfast, I walked the two minutes back to our rental and did a second, more thorough search. I checked pockets and backpacks and drawers. I checked under the bed and under the couch and under the seats of our car. It was nowhere to be found.

By the time I got back to their house, Julie and Sam were fully engaged in getting ready for their seven day trip. Having to limit myself to under fifty pounds of stuff for our nine weeks Out West, it actually looked easier than gathering everything they needed for camping and rafting. Larry and I entertained our granddaughter with books, puzzles, and games, trying to stay out of the way of the oars, coolers, rucksacks stuffed with clothing and towels, bottles of suntan lotion and bug spray, sleeping bags, a paddle board, and enough food and drink for a small army.

By the time we finished lunch, I needed a break and a possible chance at redemption.

“I’m walking downtown to see if I can find the lost hat,” I said. “If that fails, I will see if I can find a replacement.”

I first checked the bookstore’s lost and found. Lots of sunglasses a set of keys, but no hat. I then walked through Walter Byron Park, Someone had hung up a slightly worn “Get high in Colorado” teeshirt on the park sign, but no hat. I then walked back to Main Street and began checking out the hat racks that were set up in front of many of the stores, another exercise in futility. Too big. Too small. Wrong print. Wrong color. I stuck on my mask and began checking out inside inventories. I finally saw a possibility. Right size. Pink (Her favorite color). No butterflies, but lots of bright flowers. I snapped a picture, texted it to Julie, and then followed it up with a phone call.

“The hat wasn’t in the bookstore or the park, so I decided to check the stores,” I said. “Look at the picture on your text. I think you will love it.”

“Mom,” Julie replied a few seconds later. “ The hat is adorable, but we are not missing the floppy dragonfly hat.We are missing the baseball butterfly cap!”

“She wasn’t wearing her baseball butterfly cap on Friday,” I said testily. “She was wearing her floppy butterfly hat.”

“That’s her dragonfly hat as it has dragonflies and butterflies,” Julie said. “We have that one!” Then she added sheepishly. “I guess you and Dad didn’t lose it after all.” Long pause. “Hey, at least you got your exercise in!”

She was right. By the time I got home, I had walked over three miles looking for a hat that we had never lost in the first place.

I also realized that we had seen a girl’s butterfly baseball cap the day before at the REI in the next town over. I called the outdoor retailer and asked the clerk to put it aside for my daughter. No longer feeling magnanimous or generous, I made no move to pick up either the hat or the cost. After realizing the Fun Club lost and found box was locked up because of a field trip, Julie drove over to Silverthorne and bought it herself.

The following Sunday night, Julie, Sam, and my granddaughter returned from their camping trip, First thing Monday morning, Mother and Daughter walked over to Fun Club, where the missing hat was waiting in the lost and found box.

“This warrants a story, you realize,” I told her the next day while sitting at her kitchen table on my computer. Julie just shrugged. And I started typing away.

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

There Goes My Heart

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The first week of September in Upstate New York is a time for new clothes, sharpened pencils, and bright yellow buses that reappear on neighborhood streets like clockwork two days after Labor Day. School opening is an important time for the children. It is also a bittersweet moment for the adults who are saying good-bye to them.

My first vivid memory was my first day of school. My mother walked me up the hill to the big brick building that housed all the grades for Keeseville Central. I quietly sat at a table stringing colored beads in Mrs. Ford’s kindergarten classroom. My mother wordlessly slipped out the door. I didn’t cry.

I was supposed to be the last of my parents’ three children going off to school, but that plan failed. My sister was born three months before I entered kindergarten. Bobbie was a shining example of the little “surprise” many pre-birth-control women in their mid to late thirties experienced just when they thought diapers and formula were behind them. I am not sure if my mother pushed Bobbie in the carriage into the classroom that morning. I am sure dropping me off only to return to a house still equipped with a crib, a high chair, and a playpen was an ironic moment in my mother’s life.

When it came time to send my son Adam off to kindergarten, I had mixed feelings. I was happy for him to be starting on his next adventure, but my mind was filled with concerns. Would his teacher, who had a reputation for being strict, be kind to my son? Would he overcome his shyness, make new friends? My fears were certainly not alleviated when within the first week he didn’t come up our driveway after the school bus pulled away. My phone call to the school triggered an alert to the driver, who found Adam fast asleep in the back the bus. Somehow, he did survive his first year. Life before school became a distant memory as Julie followed Adam up the school bus steps three years later.

What was so much more difficult for me was sending Adam off to college. The summer before, I shopped for comforters and dorm sized sheets and enough shampoo and soap to last him four years. The thought of his leaving the house and our no longer having four at the dinner table caused me to tear up all summer. A week before he was to leave, I was cutting up several pounds of chicken breast when I burst into tears. “I will never have to make this much chicken again!” I sobbed out loud to an empty kitchen.

The night before we drove him to the University of Rochester, most of the purchases were still in bags with the tags still on them. Unlike me who needed to be packed and ready days in advance, Adam was happy to just stuff things into suitcases and plastic bins at the last minute.

The four of us lugged his life in Rubbermaid containers up the five flights of stairs—why did my children always get the top floors of their dorms?—and Adam quickly settled in. My last memory of my son that day was his leaning back on his chair in front of his desk, proclaiming “I am going to like it here!”

Once Larry, Julie, and I got back into the car for our trip home, I felt such deep pain that I thought someone had wrenched my heart out of my body. I cried from Rochester to Syracuse. I finally stopped when Julie commented sarcastically from her perch in the back seat, “You have another child, you know!”

Sending Julie off to Williams College three years later was a little easier—maybe because she was the second child; maybe because she was only forty-five minutes away. We dropped her off in Williamstown and got her situated in her fourth floor—of course!-dorm room. By the time we pulled into our driveway, we were giddy with excitement over our new-found freedom. We knew that both children were happy in their college environment. That knowledge, coupled with the realization that we longer had to worry about the daily angst of their high school lives—homework, car pools, dates for a dance—made the transition into our now empty nest smoother.

Still, each time our children came home, I found their inevitable departure difficult. After sending Julie off to college for her final year, I asked my mother if she ever got used to saying goodbye. “Oh, Marilyn,” she said. “It never gets easier! Every time any one of you gets into the car and drives away, I think to myself, ‘There goes my heart!’”

So, each year on the first day of school, when I see the school bus filled with children with their new clothes, their sharpened pencils their bright back packs, I will be thinking of my first day, my children’s first days, and my aching heart.

The story that started it all! Published in The Jewish World on August 15, 2013 on Page 12. After moving to Florida, I compiled a number of my stories and published this on my birthday in 2016.