I’m 44. Today’s My First Birthday
Birthdays are meant to be a special day that celebrates an individual. I never really understood that notion since my mother and I shared April 11th. I was born the day she turned 31. She would have been 75 today.
As a child, birthdays made me very anxious. I remember running away during my 5th birthday because so many people were singing and I couldn’t handle the attention. I don’t remember much about the individual parties. My sense is that my parents focused on it being my birthday most of the years. My 9th is my sharpest memory. Mom threw a big bash in her own honor the year she turned 40. Many people came and I remember thinking that she was very popular. I don’t know whether I had a party that year. But I vividly recall hers.
My 11th is the only year I remember well. I took my friends to the see the movie HAIR at the Uptown Theater. From that point on I wanted to be Treat Williams. Until I saw Prince of the City.
During my teenage years, I would stumble down the steep stairs of my parents’ house to be greeted by “Happy Birthday sweetie!” Instead of “thank you” I responded, “Happy Birthday to you Mom.” This awareness of our shared special, individual day lead me to largely disengage from the birthday experience.
I never knew what to get my mother frequently buying her knives because the Holly Street cooking gear was always in such terrible shape. In retrospect, I might have been sending the wrong message. Once, after she leaned into kiss me and I ducked my head to elude the rusher, she asked me why I always turned away when she tried to kiss me. Just about the only time I’ve been speechless since I turned 18.
The whole idea of birthday gathering, gifts, parties etc really felt foreign to me. My wife, among others, was not amused. We’ve nearly divorced ever other year of our 15 together because of my failure to plan. At a certain point, it got so bad that her friends started suggesting events and gifts and stuff because they didn’t want to deal with the fallout of my negligence. At one point, I considered starting up a reminder company/app/service for irresponsible men ( it’s a large market), but then 15 ”birthday plays” were funded between August and September of 1999. It’s ok, I stuck with the fast growing website development business.
I had a great weekend with friends and family. Zengu —a tequilleria with lots of friends Saturday. Dinner with the nuclear family last night at Market Table following our first little league win of the season.
Then today, my Dad got me a real treat when he bought himself an 11 inch Macbook Air. No more PC support for me. Nina agreed to get me exactly what I wanted — a share of Knicks season tickets for the upcoming Championship 2011-12 season (or perhaps a lockout).
Meanwhile, there’s no awkward, perfunctory exchange of birthday pleasantries with my mother. Sometimes, even the uncomfortable moments are missed. Still, my(not our) first birthday was fun. Maybe next year, I’ll have a party.
Mom/Dad Receive Jewish Social Action “Thalberg”
VamooseBus on I-95 just past Maryland House — This morning my father woke up with two black eyes and a massive gash on his forehead. Long month. I could hear Mom’s voice at once admonishing and sympathetic.
On Sunday evening, my parents received their first joint award. Jews United for Justice honored them for what the evening’s host, NPR’s Linda Wertheimer, called “a lifetime of Jewish social action commitment.”
If I could pick one award that Dad would like to win, it’s a Heschel. Before there were Heschel awards he wanted to win a Heschel. Only a Nobel Peace Prize or Major League Baseball’s Manager of the Year could have surpassed last night.
Two months ago, I thought Mom would live to accept her Heschel. A new volley of “I’m sorry for your losses” reminded me how keenly I felt her absence. After 30 years, I dipped into the synagogue’s kitchen and remembered the week before my bar mitzvah when Mom and her friends made Tuna Nicoise for the luncheon. A combination of economic factors and my mother’s firm belief that she was a sensational cook sent shockwaves through the catering industry that week. Food was just another issue. Mom advocated for justice and quality for all.
It wasn’t that I missed Mom. Maybe it’s too soon. But the evening, just didn’t feel right without her. All of my writing teachers taught me to avoid cliches. But I don’t care:
MOM WAS LOOKING DOWN ON US. I FELT HER PRESENCE. SERIOUSLY.
As a young man, my father dreamed of entering the Adlai Stevenson/Hubert Humphrey/Lyndon Johnson we-really-can-eliminate-poverty-and-injustice-if-we-just-try Liberal Hall of Fame. Later, he synthesized his political aspirations with what I used to call his “born-again Judaism.” This mish mash of traditional rituals and movement politics emphasized equality for all living creatures. “King of the Universe” became the gender-neutral “sovereign”, Dayenu got bumped for Go Down Moses, and on Shabbat Friday evenings Dad turned our dinner table into his personal Hyde Park soapbox teaching us about every oppressed people on the planet from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. We never ate before midnight.
A few hundred people turned out to support the Heschel Honorees. Mostly they were in their 20s or 70s. My generation was conspicuously absent from the Social Action celebration which will be the subject of a future post, book, autobiography or hip hop record.
Pulitzer Prize Winning Ron Suskind remembered Mom as the evening’s first speaker. Mom loved Ron and championed his work. She pushed, prodded and showered him with attention. Dozens of writers experienced this treatment, but most did not use the bookstore cafe as their office. Naturally Mom and Ron developed a special bond. He called her “the reader’s reader” and spoke extemporaneously and eloquently about how much Mom had meant to him as a writer and as a neighbor:
What is community? It’s a sustained affection for purpose. Carla was a tribal leader. She was our Abraham.
Leader? Absolutely. Jewish? The only holiday Mom knew as a child was Christmas. But people change, especially when they are married to my father.
All of the speakers spoke generously about honoring Mom’s memory and/or my father’s influence on their careers. Fundamentally, this was my parents’ evening. Except that it wasn’t. Mom was gone, and Dad was black and blue.
During his first tennis since my mother had died in set 1 game 1, Dad chased after a winner and somersaulted hard to the cement sustaining multiple contusions. He spent the duration of the morning at the same hospital where Mom spent three weeks earlier this summer. He survived with no major injuries, although he looks like Nardo after a Jets/Sharks rumble.
Every day people call or email. People worry. How is your father they ask?
He’s as good as he can be.
For this he should be most proud. I know that I am. He has invested most of his life thinking and caring for others. Sometimes the hardest thing is taking care of yourself.
4 hours on the highway feels a million miles away.
My Eulogy for Mom
3 years ago, during the Presidential Election of 2008, a once revered job title of my parents’ generation was rediscovered: community organizer. I’m glad Mom lived to see that. She was one of this city’s visionary community architects.
Frequently, she and I ruminated about the importance of community. We would brainstorm ideas for indoor playgrounds, independent movie theaters, adult education facilities and various incarnations of food bazaars. During these conversations, I learned to appreciate thread of community organization that weaved through my mother’s personal and professional life.
One trip to Holly Street told you Mom was no Felix Unger when it came to organization. Our house was a Category 5 hurricane and FEMA never arrived. But she had a Ruthian-sized ability to create community. SDA, HUD, Work Seekers, Tifereth Israel, The Climate Action Project, and Politics and Prose attest to her master planning credentials. Community fascinated mom. How it could be built and sustained. She knew the ingredients and wanted to share her recipes.
Communities begin with people. This year, Dad, Eve and I learned that it takes an enormous village to care for somebody with a terminal illness. During this trying year, dozens of you helped us care for Mom. From the beginning, her friends from birth to her final days – the famous playpen buddies — Betsy and Carol were with Mom nearly every week. Carol’s husband ensured Mom received the finest medical care that our country had to offer. Camp buddy Helen stayed with Dad more nights than we can remember. Beryl, Beth, Carol, Louise, Ann Shields, Ann Rigby, Bonnie and Liz lifted Mom’s spirits in her final months. Mom’s nieces and nephews, and her legendarily resilient mother Deedee frequently visited her these past several months. Her siblings, Michael, Anne, Ellie and Frank made her the happiest and made her laugh summer and fall. Mom’s oldest brother Mark cared for her with a tenderness and persistence. In the trenches, Mark is your guy. Particularly if you have a freezer that stores homemade ice cream.
When Mark wasn’t feeding Mom, members of her Politics and Prose family delivered food for months. She provided them with a special place to work. They cared for her as if she were more mother than boss. She gave you so much, and you gave back more than any of us could imagine. You helped us survive this very difficult year. We are very grateful. Mom’s friendships and work formed the foundation of our never-ending conversation about community. As Dad, Eve, and I talked I realized that I was writing the Carla Manifesto.
Mom instilled in Eve and I that nothing is worth doing in life if you don’t bring 100% of yourself every day” We always had homemade Halloween costumes or the best cookies at the bake sale. All of Mom’s dabbling in crafts, prodigious baking, and even her 2 decade career in city planning occurred long before she found her true calling. The best communities grow from their founders’ passion.
In the early 80s in a period of remarkable reinvention — Mom dropped everything she knew to open a bookstore. She would build a community by sharing her love of books and ideas. Her college friend Beryl told me, “Your mother found the perfect job for her. At P&P, she had permission and in fact was encouraged to tell everybody what to read.” Liz Hersh said, “Carla either wanted to know what you were reading or tell you what she was reading. So why not open a bookstore?”
Now, people questioned the wisdom of her vision. Crown Books, Nobody reads, How will you make a living they said. Mom’s vision never wavered. She believed that community and bookstore were synonymous. Until her death, a community bookstore remained her greatest passion.
People, Passion, and Place. Physical spaces were of great interest during our childhood. Mom would schlep Eve and I to the most creative playgrounds or funkiest amusement parks. Why pull over to stay at that convenient hotel with central air conditioning and a big swimming pool when we could visit some off-the-beaten-trail known only to the 19others readers of an obscure already out of print guide to Concord, New Hampshire. No matter where we were in America our family had to bear witness to the great experiments in urban revitalization. Chicago, New York, Baltimore of course. But who knew Portland, Maine was undergoing a city-wide transformation? Moreover, what children knew the term “urban renewal” before their bar mitzvahs?
Speaking of bar mitzvahs, it was 30 years ago last March that I stood at this very microphone listening to our Rabbi say a few words about the bar mitzvah boy. As I stand here now, I can see my mother’s enormous smile beaming up from the very seats where my family sits this morning. Rabbi Abramowitz peered down at me that day and after concluding his standard material about this historic occasion, and planted in Israel, and my Soviet twinning certificate he added a personal editorial. “Aaron, you are a force to be reckoned with.” Mom loved this. Of course, she was the true and unique force to be reckoned with — and I do it mean with complete and total admiration. Well almost.
Mom and Dad raised Eve and me in this synagogue among this membership forming lifelong friendships with people who shared their interests, values and challenges. Deeply influenced by Tifereth Israel, she understood the value of physical place in organizing community. She nurtured the friendships born from the shared intellectual passions of this membership. Through these years in the 70s and 80s my mother began to see that many people needed more than churches and synagogues in order to congregate. She believed Washingtonians craved a space for intellectual renewal. But how to go about it?
This was the birth of Politics and Prose – the life’s work of two women. Mom’s one and only business partner and special friend Barbara Meade spoke eloquently about their success when they recently accepted as “lifetime achievement award” from fellow booksellers. Theirs was a beautiful union. Generous with each other, their staff, and customers, the result of their partnership is that superb bookstore. P and P is the 21st century standard for a community institution in Washington and a towering influence on booksellers worldwide. These women shepherded a renaissance of intellectual life in Washington that will continue for generations to come. Barbara, she could never have done it without you. Dad, Eve, and I thank you so much for helping Mom realize her dream. Our family will work hard to find the right people to build on your legacy. We promised Mom that.
Many experienced the power of Mom’s friendship. Known to be a voracious reader, she also collected friendships with colleagues, neighbors, and customers. The depth of feeling conveyed by so many of you in your calls and letters strengthened Mom’s resolve to live. She needed to see you, talk with you and touch you. She fed off your love even as she struggled to eat.
The Carla Manifesto would be incomplete if I neglected to say a few words about food. Food was Holly Street. Food was staff meetings. Food was holidays. Food was going on vacation and planning the next meal while eating the current one. Food was only baking, never, ever buying birthday cakes or holiday cookies. Food was love. Food was Mom and me.
25 years ago, I was readying to return to college after Thanksgiving.. Rain poured down outside. My father paced worrying about getting me to Union Station. The drive was 20 minutes and we only had 3 hours to go. Enter the force to be reckoned with wearing boots and soaking poncho. She marched past Dad and headed straight for the kitchen.
Mom, what are you doing here?
I needed to come home and make you Turkey sandwiches.
Hmm. That’s a Good point. You did need to do that.
Oh Come on Carla, he could have made his own…
David
Yeah Dad. Why are you getting involved in this? Mom can I have some French toast before I go.
Carla I’m going to pull the car around back.
Crisco dumped in pan for challah French toast. How many sandwiches Air?
Well is there enough turkey Mom? Did you make enough? I don’t want to deprive you and Dad…
I’ll make you 4.
Mom, did you make me cream cheese brownies too?
Of course, I already packed those in two layers of tin foil so they’ll stay fresh.
Dad returns: Carla, where is the car? I want to take yours because its safer on a wet road.
You’ll have to use the Mazda. I left the Buick on 16th street.
What do you mean you 16th Street?
Well, I had a fenderbender?
You did?
Where’s the car?
It’s, totaled.
Totaled?
Yes, as in it can’t be driven totaled.
Ohmygod, Are you alright?, How did you get here?
I’m fine grumpher. The police came. They gave me a lift up here.
Mom, why didn’t you stay with the car?
Don’t be silly. I told the police I had to make your turkey sandwiches.
That is why food is love. Love from the force to be reckoned with. Car accidents, Barnes and Noble and Amazon.com could not deter her.
People, Passion, Place, Partnership and finally love. And there was no love greater than Mom and Dad’s. On vacations, they lay side by side on a hotel room double bed with a large stack of books resting on the night table silently reading while holding hands. They didn’t need to talk, but they did. My parents talked all the time. They modeled marriage for Eve and me: Enjoy each other’s lives, interests, friends, and families.
This past summer, I kept asking Mom – Why was your marriage so good? She said,” Oh Aaron it’s such hard work. We were lucky.” I asked her what that meant, and she looked at me with those still twinkling eyes unable to find the words to describe the power of this love. I know it’s hard to believe, but when it came to their relationship, Mom was speechless.
For the past 10 months, Love fueled my father’s steadfast commitment to Mom’s well-being. Dad, all of us, most of all Eve, Richard, Nina, and I marvel at your capacity for care giving. Your grace and compassion inspire. People who love you surround you. Remember, it will take a community to survive Mom’s loss. We stand at the ready. You have far more to give as a father, grandfather, mentor, teacher, and friend.
Mom loved all of us especially Eve and me. Like many families, we grew up close, drifted, reconciled and evolved. Sometimes Mom’s capacity for love could overwhelm those closest to her. I can think of a colleague, sibling, close friend or even a son who periodically requested space, but not this year. This year Mom’s magnetic power drew us back to her. We maximized our time. Down to the very last day, we held her hand. We wept as she declined and finally we mourn her loss.
My mother’s monumental capacity for love and friendship might seem impossible to replace. We must honor her by supporting and nurturing the things she cared about most. That’s you the people —from her 100-year-old mother to her grandchildren — Ry and Georgia. My wife Nina frequently reminds me that love is all that matters. Please honor my mother’s memory: Support your local communities and love the people in your life with an enthusiasm worthy of the Carla Manifesto.
In High School A friend moved in with us
Here is what can happen when you help young teenagers with dysfunctional homes.
Lasting Impact
Submitted by JB Salganik on October 12, 2010 - 5:05pm.Carla and David helped me get my life on track at a very crucial point in time when I had no one else to turn to. Since then, I have tried to live by their example; fearless in the white light of justice, first as a journalist and then as a public school teacher in Baltimore. In the years since, I have helped hundreds of inner-city kids against all odds become scholars and professionals, many earning total scholarships to elite colleges, all stemming from the love and support the Cohens showed me years earlier. I have also never forgotten for a moment the affection and teamwork between the two of them which I saw for the first time in my life as a guest in their home. In many ways, the model of their marriage formed the basis for my own future happy, loving, and supportive family; breaking a cycle of dysfunction that went back generations. I have no idea where I would be today if I had not met such kind hearted and wise people, but I am sure my life would not be nearly as enjoyable or as helpful to the rest of society as it is.
From my Friend Jonas Salganick on politics-prose.com/carla
“It Was Fun”
Without the Major League Baseball playoffs, I’m not sure how we would have weathered the weekend my mother died.
Mom drifted in and out of a comatose state in her final three days. After my sister used her most persuasive lobbying skills, hospice nurses and doctors arrived to increase massively her dilaudid, but abdominal cancer is very painful.
I returned to Washington after 24 hours in New York. My plan was to attend my brother-in-law’s wedding and then fly to Washington, but I never felt right and spent most of my time staring into space. Nina saw it right away and encouraged me to go back to DC.
The preceding night was exruciatingly difficult for Eve and Dad. My father picked me up at Union Station and said, “I’m glad you’re back. We have beef ribs for dinner, but go see Mom before you eat.”
My uncle Mark, a celebrity chef, who is missing Thomas Keller’s 55th birthday to speak at my mother’s funeral, has fed my mother and family for months. In the final week, he was here twice a day and prepared nearly every meal.
I walked in the house, sprinted up the stairs, and entered Mom’s room. Even in the two days her color had grown paler and her breathing more labored. I stroked her hand and said
Mom, we’re all here. We love you, it’s time to let go.
She would have none of it. Instead she raised her eyebrows and moaned a little louder.
Three days earlier, I told her how proud I was of her bravery. She denied her terminal illness for several months, but over the summer started to speak more openly about death. She turned her head towards me and whispered, “Aaron, I’m not sure I’ve really come to terms with this.” Then she grinned. I knew she wasn’t ready.
By the time I returned, she was rarely conscious. Nerves were frayed. My sister who was working the pace of an intensive care nurse with only one patient — was exhausted. We worried about Dad’s ability to sleep but he refused to leave her. They slept side by side to the very end. Dad on the foreign side of his queen sized bed and Mom in a hospital bed. They often held hands through the night.
At times Mom would babble incoherently. Occasionally, the sentences were clear, but made no sense. Dad kissed her Saturday night. She kissed back and with an energy surge frequent to those near death told him the simple, poetic truth: “It was fun.” These were her final words.
Sunday my uncles surrounded us, Mom’s pain grew worse and I found myself unable to spend more than a minute with her. All throughout this process, I tried to stay steady and keep our family loose. But Sunday I started to lose it. I watched baseball, football and frequently checked my fantasy teams. I went upstairs, but I couldn’t say anything. I covered my ears when I heard mom moaning because Eve was changing her position in bed.
Renee, our superhero hospice nurse reminded me,
“Sons really have trouble watching their mothers die. It’s the daughters who do the best work. Don’t feel bad.”
The Redskins pulled out a squeaker.
Mom’s brother Frank and his wife Nina found all the amazing food in the refrigerator and pulled a dinner together. Mark arrived with a cake. You see, Sunday 10/10/10 was my father’s birthday. Towards the end of the evening, Eve put a candle in the cake and we sang Happy Birthday. He turned 74, the same age as my mother. For the first time in 50 years he returned to his wedding weight.
Sunday night found Dad rooting for his hometown Phillies as Mom settled into a pain-free, calm sleep.
When we woke up the next morning, I heard Mom’s shallow, moaning breaths a floor away. I started to get dressed when Eve called me. Then Dad called me more forcefully and I tumbled down the steps into their room.
Mom had died.
Dad was shaving, Eve was preparing her morning care, I was getting dressed and she just let go. Eve felt for a pulse and I lay down next to her to try the same. My heart was racing so I couldn’t figure out what was happening. Was it my pulse or hers? Her chest was still and finally her face relaxed.
Death is peaceful; perhpas because dying is its opposite.
We spent 15 minutes with her body, largely in silence. Then we picked up the phones and started calling family.
Family Guy, Hebrew School and Cancer
Yesterday morning I sat on the couch next to my mother and typed “Family Guy Scarejew Jon Stewart” into the YouTube search box and showed my mom a clip. She couldn’t hear so I got my headphones and then she laughed.
I entered “Family Guy DMV” and Mom smiled through the morphine haze that can overtake her in the late morning.
Later, we sat outside in the garden observing how few monarchs visit her butterfly bushes. 3 times she told me that hurricanes had wiped out the butterfly population, but she couldn’t recall the name of the hurricane that did it . “Katrina,” I reminded.
Mom I have new project for Dad. Want to hear?
When it comes to raising the kids with a Jewish historical and spiritual context, I’ve failed. My father steadily reminds me and his quiet, persistent, and constructive criticism is warranted.
I’d prefer to blame Nina (who looks, but is not Jewish) for this parental deficiency, but, while she has encouraged, suggested and even prodded me to take action my ambivalence has been paralyzing. On only our second date (Tomoe Sushi), I told Nina that the kids would have to be Jewish.
She said ok.
We got married 3 years later.
For reasons I can’t explain or feelings I’ve skillfully repressed, joining an organized Jewish community eludes me. My overt connection to faith, ethnicity, and ancestry start with my name (I’m making a film about it) and continue with my career (AnyClip is an Israeli company). But I struggle at home. I’m more successful choosing Christmas trees than synagogues.
Mom let’s face it. I’m not good at the “making my kids Jewish thing” so here’s my idea. Do you think Dad could be their formal Jewish educator? We’d be borrowing from the evangelical movement. Call it Hebrew Home School.
All of mom’s anxiety about death focuses on my father and her bookstore. 10 months into cancer, those remain her primary worries. Now Dad could have a new project that would distract him from the disease. She grew excited, pitched and sold him in 5 minutes. Perfect clarity for the moment. Naturally, Dad had to say yes.
You can learn a lot about marriage observing the twilight of my parents 52 years together. In the past 10 months, His only night away was for his granddaughter’s 7th birthday. Dad dutifully fills the pillbox and hands her syringes of morphine. He’s even learned to make milk shakes full of the calories she loathes, but must consume.
Meanwhile, she nudges him to think about life after her. She worries about Dad and the house and dad alone. He’s not ready to talk about any of these practicalities. My father’s support network is extensive, but when we go home he is often left alone in their enormous old house coping with my mother’s exhaustion, fear and confusion. This decline depletes vast reserves of my father’s once famous and still considerable energy.
Sometimes my mother’s condition can overwhelm. Yesterday, she had a long overdue appointment with the audiologist. Her hearing has deteriorated so much in the past month that Dad worried the disease had metastasized to her ears Doctors, have since reassured us that her hearing loss is not affected by her tumor.
As Mom got ready to go to her appointment, she couldn’t find her pocketbook. Long before cancer infected our family, purses, keys, and eyeglasses would wander off and hide somewhere in my parents house. Mom insisted she brought her bag home from the bookstore the day before. Dad agreed and was convinced that a thief penetrated our living room and stole this pocketbook while we watched the US Open Final.
We looked high and low until we spotted the small red purse on the back seat of the car. Dad’s frustration transformed into enormous relief as he realized he wouldn’t have to deal with new insurance and credit cards. Either way, she wasn’t going back to the DMV to replace that license.
As I stepped off the train at Penn Station, Dad called to report that Mom had an amazing day. With her hearing aids adjusted her alertness dramatically increased. Tomorrow morning she will attend the quarterly Politics and Prose staff meeting.
Tennis Therapy
My father and I snuck out of the hospital today and played an 80 minute set. I won bringing my lifetime record to 2-176. But I’m 2 for my last 6 and with him rapidly approaching 74 and my new Babolat raquet I feel my best days are ahead of me.
Mom’s cancer has me far more familiar with Washington DC traditions than I have been in years. How could I have forgotten about the joys of playing in 100% humidity? When we returned drenched in sweat, the receptionists and candy stripers gave quizzical looks. Who walks into a hospital looking like they just left the gym?
Meanwhile, the doctors have finally figured out that Mom’s narcotic cocktail was creating some discouraging side effects. Nobody wants to feel pain, but having cancer doesn’t mandate a trip on the Magical Mystery Tour. Our conversations made me flash back to freshmen evenings in the woods at Hampshire College.
With some reductions, she’s considerably clearer. There is light at the end of this week’s tunnel. Hopefully home for the weekend.
