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The Wasabi Incident and other Tales of Aging Parents

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(L-R): Lorraine, Dan (the author) and Martin Levitz

Interacting with aging parents, for those of us firmly entrenched in middle age, can be pleasant, painful, humorous, bittersweet, inspiring, odd….and, please, feel free to insert your own adjectives. I don’t believe that there is a universal approach nor experience regarding older parents, however, I do feel that participating in a conversation about that last stage of life with them is a significant endeavor.

Lately I’ve been talking to friends about experiences with their aging parents. A close pal from high school told me that he was having the difficult conversation with his octogenarian father about possibly moving into an assisted living facility. Apparently the conversation was non-conclusive and resulted in what will forever be known as “The Wasabi Incident.” As my friend related, “We took Dad to visit the assisted living building for a tour. Didn’t go well. He pretty much shut down the sales guy telling him he was only there because we made him go and he has no intention of moving. He was happy later though because he got to eat dinner there for free. Sigh. Surprisingly still hungry, we then took Dad to a sushi restaurant and he ordered California rolls. Not sure if he realized what he was ordering. When the food came he immediately reached out with his fingers, grabbed the blob of wasabi and started to stuff it in his mouth. I yelled for him to stop and he only ate some but was definitely surprised by the spiciness of it. He’s mostly okay but does weird stuff like that once in a while”.

My friend’s Dad, as I’ve known him, is a bright, decent, no nonsense kind of guy.

I wish “The Wasabi Incident” could provide answers concerning his state of mind. However, all it raises are short-term questions like what the hell was he doing and, more daunting existential queries about the universally shared reality that with inevitable relentless urgency it is all going to end. For everyone.

Another buddy shared a story about when his father passed. They’d had a volatile relationship going back to his childhood and while always connected, there remained tension. His Dad had learned that he was terminally ill and requested a meeting with his son. My friend was certain that this farewell of sorts would be the moment where they could finally express their true good feelings for one another despite their bumpy history. They sat in his Father’s yard and drank wine on a crisp autumn afternoon. The Father looked into the son’s eyes and hesitated while the son prepared for some kind of emotional revelation. What followed was quite simply a non-negotiable list of people the Father vehemently forbid from attending his funeral. Not exactly what my friend was expecting but he laughs about it now as it was certainly consistent with his Father and, in retrospect, was most definitely a farewell.

My Dad died in 2013 at the age of 89. Martin was the kind of person who really took pleasure in life. He was passionate about collecting art, eating great and abundant meals, New York Yankees baseball and of course his wife of 66 years, my Mom. The last year of his life was difficult because most of these things were taken away from him because of his health. All except my Mom who took care of him in a heroic and remarkably devoted manner. Despite pleas from everyone to get help she took all of this on herself because she felt that’s what he wanted. My Dad would constantly yell out with urgency “Lorraine!” I found this touching (and not to mention loud). One day I convinced Mom to take a walk and have a little time for herself.  As the door shut I heard the same demanding exclamation, “Lorraine!” Answering his call I told my Dad that Mom was taking a walk but I was home with him. I thought he might be unhappy about this but a minute later in the same formidable tone he hollered, “Dan!” That he was able to shift his focus so quickly from his wife to his son told me that despite his love for and reliance upon his wife there was a pragmatic element to survival that may transcend even indestructible love.

Lorraine and Martin Levitz, the author’s parents

As for Mom, now 90, she can be found on one of her two daily walks around her neighborhood in lower Manhattan. She lives alone and gets a nice amount of attention from her children and grandchildren who all live relatively close. It’s not unusual for her to meet someone new and within a minute or two proudly note that she is indeed 90. In fact, she began bragging about being 90 when she was only 89 but you can’t blame her as the reaction is almost always complimentary. At a younger stage of adult life, stating one’s age out of the blue would be something of a non-sequitur.

At 90 it’s simply addressing the elephant in the room. A beautiful aspect of this time of Mom’s life is that she is still happy and independent yet fully aware of the numbers that prove that things are definitely winding down. I think that fact is harder on the rest of us than her but it’s inspiring to know that she can talk about it calmly and firmly in the context of what a wonderful life she most certainly has enjoyed.

Now I Meow: Learning to Silence the Tiger Roar Within

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Let’s play a short game of “Never Have I Ever.”

• Bought the “My Baby Can Read!” Program?

• Enrolled your two year old in Mandarin lessons?

• Prepped your four-year-old for a pre-school entrance exam?

It’s been ten years since I was pregnant with my son. Due to a severe and unannounced complication, Jesse became my only child. All of those proverbial eggs went into this one basket. My husband and I, ignoring our collective DNA, believed our seven-pound,12-ounce baby would one day be a boy of grit and determination.

Why on earth did we think a child born from our creative chromosomes would express an interest in perfect penmanship, homework done without a hint of procrastination, or a sincere desire to conform to school and suburban societal standards? Both of us were boundless daydreamers, not “good students.” Neither of us went to an Ivy League school. It took me 12 years to get a Bachelor’s Degree. Who was I as a parent to have such unrealistic expectations of an infant?

I decided to ignore genetics, and turned to nurture and instead of nature. From before that soft spot closed on his not-so-hairy head, I read to Jesse for hours: Sandra Boynton board books, The Old Man and the Sea. By the time he was two I’d bought a small chalkboard, where I would write out the alphabet every day, singing along with an actual pointing stick. Of course he knew the whole song by 26 months and four days but who’s counting?

Right before Jesse turned three in February of 2011, a bestselling book was released. You know the one. The Tiger Mom. Her Battle Hymn. With children practicing instruments on vacation. This tome was sweet validation for my maniacal child rearing practices. Immediately after reading the book, I began teaching him to sound out three letter words:

Bat, cat, hat, pat, sat. Bet, jet, let, met. Bit, fit, hit. Cot, dot. But, cut.

By the time Pre-K rolled around, he was more than ready for real kindergarten. Imagine my elation at my four-year-olds parent teacher conference upon hearing, “What a smart boy. Such language skills!” That sound you hear? My inner tiger roaring across the Okavango Delta.

September 2013 arrived, and sadly, Kindergarten started with a whimper. Jesse cried on the bus every. Single. Day. I thought to myself, “If he’s so sad, he can’t concentrate. But it’s ok, I’ve already taught him so much.” (In hindsight, I should have been thinking about his feelings, but I was a tiger, not a kitten.)

Fallen crimson leaves replaced fallen tears, and by Thanksgiving, I was most thankful that Jesse was doing better. Plus! The most wonderful time of the year was soon upon us: his very first report card. The day arrived and I tore open the envelope. A grade of “4” was the best. A “1” was the worst.

And there it was, in the right hand column, not under reading or writing or “rithmetic.”

There was a one.

I never realized there was an “emotional” side to a report card.

At his parent/teacher conference, Mrs. Crusher of Dreams tells my husband and I, “Jesse takes no pride in his work. He thinks he knows everything already.”

Of course my son felt this way and it was all my fault. It was time to accept a few truths. My parenting was much like my cooking: overdone. Children should learn things in their own time. And my son was no tiger cub. More like a sloth – cute as could be, moving at his own pace.

Every year since Pre-K I’ve made my son hold up a sign on the first day of school. You know the one. “Jesse’s first day of…” and the date. I always added the line, “When I grow up I want to be a…” First grade it was policeman. Second grade I winced as I wrote “garbage collector.” Last year my heart swelled when he wanted to run Apple. This year, fourth grade, I have done away with asking the question. Because I have finally learned – the only right answer is HAPPY.

A Reflection on 9/11 and the Gratitude that Fills Me

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The 9/11 ceremony at Gedney Park was well attended
PHOTO BY STACEY PFEFFER

By Rev. Dr. Martha R. Jacobs

As I was walking up the path towards the 9/11 commemoration in Gedney Park this year, I mused to myself that this was the fourth year I was participating. I remembered the first time I arrived for the ceremony. I had been at the First Congregational Church (FCC) for about three weeks, had been asked to participate (I guess because I was “new” to the community), and when I got out of my car, not knowing anyone and not even knowing where to go, there was Robin Stout, one of my congregants and a Town Board member, seemingly waiting to greet me. He took me up the hill and introduced me to just about everyone involved. At the time, I didn’t remember their names, and had no clue that I would be getting so involved in this community. I was so grateful for Robin’s presence with me.

I had been a volunteer chaplain at Ground Zero for several months following the events of that awful morning, had spoken at several conferences in the years following about my work at Ground Zero and my time as President of the New York Disaster Interfaith Services. But I was now in a new community that, for the most part, had no idea of my history and connection to 9/11. Being asked to participate in that ceremony meant more to me than most people realized. I was so grateful to have been asked.

Local Boy Scouts salute the flag at the 9/11 ceremony
PHOTO BY STACEY PFEFFER
And, now, four years later, I am still being asked to participate.

I knew where I was going and was greeted by so many people, both first responders and members of the wider community and it filled my heart with gratitude. I remain thankful for the opportunity to pause every year to remember those who gave their lives, those who lost their lives and those who continue to struggle with health issues as a result of coming to the rescue of those who were trapped and those who died, as they sought to find the remains of those who died, so that families could have proper burials. And, I pause to remember those police and firefighters and construction workers with whom I sat and talked, and listened to, and cried with and prayed for. And I remember those with whom I walked to the cross that had been found among the rubble of the buildings, that had been placed on a piece of cement for those workers who needed to see a symbol of hope and grace amidst the immense devastation and loss of human life. At the time, there was no explanation as to what happened and why it happened. I will never forget the sounds, the smells and the sights of walking into the wreckage and seeing that metal cross, which also helped me to find the courage to be there with these brave men and women.

My life has been forever changed, forever scarred and forever filled with gratitude for those who put their own lives on the line in order to try to make a difference for those whose loved ones died on that tragic morning. It changed our lives and theirs forever.

Being a part of FCC has changed me forever as well. So has being a part of this community whether through offering prayers at community events at the pagoda, during the Memorial Day commemoration, working with the school district on ensuring the safety of our children, or talking with people at Community Day. I am filled with gratitude that God has called me to serve this community at such a time as this.

Rev. Dr. Martha R. Jacobs is the Senior Minister at the First Congregational Church in Chappaqua.

Facing the Gender Gap

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Reflections from Greeley’s First Female Student Body President in Nearly Two Decades

By Hannah Fenlon

Forty six American Presidents have been elected since our country was founded in 1776–and all of them have been men. Horace Greeley High School was founded in 1928–and only two student body Presidents prior to my election have been women.

I’ve been a member of Greeley’s Student Council since my freshman year. While the unequal male to female ratio was apparent, it had never held me back during meetings, or from taking initiative. I organized events, brought in school speakers, and was elected Vice President last year. Sure, this disproportion was evident–but it was not until this year, when I wanted to run for President, that I finally felt what many women in leadership endure–discouragement and disappointment due to the lack of past female leaders to look up to, and supportively engage with. Although I knew the ropes, and had confidence in my qualifications for the position, I struggled to find the inner strength to put myself in an arena where only two females had ever succeeded.

In those moments of self-doubt and apprehension, I especially admired the perseverance of Chappaqua’s own Hillary Clinton –and the many other women taking risks in leadership. The lack of female examples to follow in this field can pose a disadvantage to women leaning in, on local and global scales. According to the Pew Research Center, “There are 15 female world leaders currently in office, eight of whom are their country’s first woman in power…these women still represent fewer than 10% of 193 United Nations’ member states.”

At Greeley, many girls have campaigned in the past–fulfilling aspects of the election process including interviewing for the position, making posters, and giving a school wide speech. While it’s certainly an imperfect process, I was still shocked when Assistant Principal Mr. Hosier informed me that despite the efforts and qualifications of so many girls, the last female President was elected in 1999.

With a greater sense of unity, I have faith that Greeley can cultivate a stronger community going forward…ready to make change.

Having experienced what it’s like to be a female in the leadership arena, I possess a greater sense of urgency to advocate and highlight girls pursuing fields where they too are the minority. In particular, I’d like to focus on the promotion of girls in STEM (science, technology, engineering and math). According to the U.S. Department of Commerce, women fill almost half of all jobs in the U.S. economy, yet hold less than 25% of STEM jobs. This underrepresentation and untapped opportunity for girls passionate about STEM is tangible unfortunately here in Chappaqua–and it’s a reality I’ve seen and experienced firsthand.

I’ve pursued my passion for STEM in classes at Greeley–and have faced this gender disproportion each time. As a sophomore,

I walked into my Robotics and Java Programming classes to find myself only one out of three female students. This year, in Tech and Design, I was the only girl–and in my engineering class, the lack of female students was also prominent. Until those moments, when I was singled out as a girl before I even began to participate, I had never viewed the classroom as a place that demanded personal courage. I thought twice about raising my hand, even when I knew I was right. Self-doubt crept into my mind, as I began to question my skills and abilities even through success. In STEM and in leadership, I have faced the uncomfortable reality of the gender gap–but these experiences have ultimately left me determined to act. I think it’d be inspiring and informative to raise awareness of the apparent gender gap here in Chappaqua, and to have a component of the annual STEM Fest at Bell to promote girls’ participation and interest in the field.

While modern day politics can sometimes seem anything but respectful, encouraging, or engaging, the level of professionalism that this year’s Student Council election possessed left me with a great sense of hope. In fact, more than 600 students voted, Greeley’s highest voter turnout in years. This sense of student engagement is something I hope to expand–not just in the sphere of elections, but throughout Greeley’s hallways, classrooms, and spirit. While school is where it begins, spirit, strength, and connection shouldn’t disappear when the bell rings at 2:35 p.m. With a greater sense of unity, I have faith that Greeley can cultivate a stronger community going forward–a community of engaged students and active leaders, unafraid to break glass ceilings, and ready to make change.

Hannah Fenlon is a senior at Horace Greeley High School and only the third female student body President.

Farewell, Sweet Swing Set

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The gardeners took down the swing-set the other day.

Laurie and I had been talking about removing this once vital backyard play-center for at least a year, our main motivation being that it’s under-utilized as our kids have gotten older, and years of Chappaqua weather put a beating on the old wooden war-horse.

Also, my daughter’s best friend is something of a champion swinger and still uses ours. The thought of him pushing the set to its final strained limits and potentially flying feet-first into my already not thrilled neighbor’s yard is not appealing. I’m generally a pragmatic person yet the thought of the swing-set ending has made me reflect upon this slight, yet distinct, turning point for our family.

When the big swing-set was installed years ago the kids were not just a little excited. There were huge plans for the club-house area, big-kid solo climbs up the ladder, the glory of three chain-linked swings (two full, one baby) and, of course, The Orange Slide of Destiny. The first thing we did was set up the kiddie-pool (first of dozens) at the bottom of The Slide. The immediate gratification of sliding head-first, feet first, laying on one’s back, the kowabunga surfing pose, any way at all with the resultant explosive splash was thrilling for the kids (and us)!

Even better, the swing-set became a destination for all of us. The kids could play independently in an old school (no screens!) visceral manner, learn safety lessons and, best of all, we could sit and watch, read and watch, eat and watch, maybe even have a drink and watch. You get the picture.

Before we moved to Chappaqua from the city the thought of being excited about having our own swing-set was something I’d never considered nor cared about in the slightest. Going to the neighborhood park and swinging the kids was a simple pleasure of city living. However, as the Manhattan to Westchester culture-shock ensued I realized that my urban perspective would need some tweaking if I was to adjust to a bucolic life. I remember walking into town with my daughter in a Baby Bjorn, something I’d done a thousand times with both kids in the city, and feeling that somehow this was different. And, it wasn’t only because there weren’t yet sidewalks on 120, and people seemed to be staring.

Part of the conversation about removing the swing-set was what to do with the physical space it once so organically filled. That got me thinking about what I might want as the kids get older. Before Chappaqua I may have envisioned being a gardener Dad. The previous owners left us with a gorgeous cornucopia of flowers, trees and bushes. The thought of working in the yard, being outside and physically maintaining my property was highly appealing. In theory at least. A wise Chappaqua friend quickly advised that doing one’s own yard was “too much work.” I’ll just reiterate that it was the gardeners taking down the swing set recently, not yours truly, so that particular Dad vision faded quickly.

It’s funny how you find yourself reflecting upon something as simple as removing a piece of playground equipment. I texted my son at college and asked him for any memories of the swing-set and I was sure it would be some near miss compound fracture or some crazy sport he invented. His surprising response was remembering coming home from sleepaway camp, sitting on a swing alone and feeling not really sure what to do with himself. Certainly not the image I expected but somehow connected to my swing-related contemplation.

I never really seriously questioned our decision to remove the swing set. I did manage, as I do sometimes, to consider the meaning of these little practical changes in life and found myself thinking a bit about my two great kids and how they’ve evolved. Raising children can really fly by and the symbolism of this small event somehow struck a chord with me.

I envisioned the nuts and bolts being taken out of the foundation of the swing-set, and the hard-weathered wood gently laid upon the ground, leaving a sentimental skeleton of a once thriving play-center that was so central to my family’s life.

I could hear the background music, think “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” by Green Day or “Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin, playing as the deconstruction slowly occurred. However, this semi-emotional Viking-funeral fantasy was quickly obliterated when I watched the gardeners take the whole thing down in about two minutes with a chain saw… an emotionally sobering moment for this Dad and probably just in the nick of time!