Sande's Blog

2011-08-02T12:40:00.000-04:00

June 17, 2011, 10:10 am

Navy Dad 1943 My Father: Lost, then Found

The e-mail from Miami reported: Dad has been missing for hours.

Instantly, there flashed a most terrifying image− my father’s 82 year-old sun-spotted face boldly imprinted on a

quart of skim. When I called for details, my brother attempted to pacify me by

reciting some of Dad’s prior extended escapes.

“Don’t you remember that daytrip he took to the Sawgrass Supermall, and what about all his secret jaunts to watch Jai Alai? Knowing Dad, he’s probably in the E.R., as we speak, having another mole checked.” Yet, when Dad failed to return home for the Monday night movie, we were forced to make dozens of calls, all futile, pursuing his whereabouts.

I’ll admit that I purposely held off speaking to my mother, knowing I would hear that we, his children, should once and for all, insist that Dad hand over his car keys. But I’d sooner nap inside a lion’s den, than strip the once very independent man of all driving privileges — his one last bastion of virility.

This time, my mother surprised me.

“I hope he’s not headed up North to you,” she said.

My right eyelid immediately started to twitch. “Why, in God’s name would you think that?”

With the authority of a cardiologist, she reported how Dad counted out a 30-day supply of his Dilantin, Lasix, and Cumadin.

“And not to mention your new Buick,” I added.

“That’s not funny, young lady!”

Funny, yes, because the flipside of all this is wrought with pain and anguish.

The brushstrokes of this family painting might have been softer had my father not suffered severe brain damage during elective surgery over a decade ago. Although he walked within days, he would never again be able to state his own name or the names of his children. His diagnosis, global Aphasia. Dad’s emotions went to work overtime substituting for the innumerable thoughts and words now trapped inside his head. This former Navy man, lover of Kerouac and Baldwin, had to now rely on a woman to perform the tasks he had easily taken for granted: managing money, dealing with handymen, social engagements, and most importantly communicating with all those he cherished.

Mom mentioned Dad had hung some slacks in the backseat of the Buick before driving off into the blinding sun. When asked if she inquired about his destination, she answered: “No, I didn’t want to provoke him.”

I tried to imagine the menu of irritants that could have sent my father packing. Was it my mother taking hours to dress while, bored, Dad paced their narrow driveway, or her scolding him over the egg yolks he consumed at breakfast? Maybe she’d bought another “unnecessary” tchotchke for their home; one of those faux Lladros or another doomed bonsai plant — small rewards she bestowed upon herself for putting up with the guy for nearly 60 years.

My brothers and I suggested she call their credit card company to have them conduct a trace. And within an hour, we learned Dad had plopped down $250 at a Florida HoJo. But until the receipt is processed, we wouldn’t know exactly where. We began to breathe a bit easier picturing him dozing on a vinyl recliner, the remote control clutched in his hand.

The next day we divvied up a list of motels. Some managers cooperated, hearing that Dad takes medication. Others refused to share information, but suggest the $250 is probably a deposit for a four-night stay, including the AARP discount. Frugality always defined him.

By Wednesday, we considered calling the police. But we feared that if they find Dad, they might revoke his license on the spot. He might be judged too hastily on his inability to speak, rather than his skill behind the wheel, which was pretty damn fine considering the circumstances.

Thursday carried stark feelings of irresponsibility. Blame flew through the long-distance wires perching nowhere in particular. We were worried about our father and furious he hadn’t called. He carried a notepad with our numbers; surely someone could have helped him phone.

A collage of freeze frames flashed before me. Maybe Dad was mugged, the Buick stolen. Could he have been planning his suicide? Maybe he ran off with his favorite waitress from Wolfie’s — a chesty blonde who always gave him extra onion pockets and called him “Toots.”

Finally, my brother called the police. They needed a description: “He has silver gray hair and brown eyes. Last seen, he was wearing green plaid pants, white Docksiders, and an expression of tightlipped rage. And look for a spotless, white, Buick, Park Avenue.”

“You just described half the state of Florida,” an officer chuckled. Without us signing an affidavit, they can’t arrest him, but they’ll definitely keep their eyes open.

Mine opened Friday morning expecting my NYC doorman to buzz and say an elderly, unshaven gentleman was in the lobby pointing to a photo of me from his wallet. In that fuzzy moment before waking, I saw myself running to him, crying then scolding.

That same afternoon, four days from when he’d stormed out of his condo, my father strolled back in whistling “Moon River.” My mother was on the phone with us planning our next strategy. She said that Dad allowed her to kiss him lightly on the forehead and to make him a cup of tea and some Bumble Bee.

“He wore this grin,” she said, a sudden lilt to her voice. And I imagined him looking as if he’d mastered some terrific feat — his version of climbing Everest or knocking out Ali in the fifth.

I’m certain that what my father was trying to say, without saying anything at all, was, with all that had happened to him, he was still very much a man — a man who sometimes longed for the freedom of the open road.

Sande Boritz Berger

Last Glance on MYDAILY posted by AOL

2011-06-03T23:22:00.000-04:00

http://www.mydaily.com/2011/06/03/last-glance-how-i-said-goodbye-to-my-mother/

On The Brink

2011-05-03T10:38:00.000-04:00

{Excerpt from a Split-Level Life} c.2011

When Donny walks in and greets me an hour later, I make a point of not looking at him. I sit at the table buffing my nails, hoping to hide the deep fuchsia tie dye stains. A sidelong glance tells me he’s wearing his usual ridiculous smirk that only half admits to being a fool. It’s hard not to fold when I see that look. This is how we’ve always shown our love-- it’s our native dance, the one we have choreographed into the intricate pattern that has become our marriage. Usually, I find comfort knowing I can expect this, but a sudden change, like a rip tide, warns that isn’t enough.

"Donny, I've got something to tell you. You better sit down." He pulls out the captain chair and glances out the window. He needs some time to settle down. It’s challenging, this game we play, but I don't dare laugh when I'm about to tell him something so horrible, even though I’m fighting off a nervous grin.

"Rob Woodman had a heart attack last night"

"Was it bad?"

"Bad enough— he's dead." I sneak a peek at Donny’s reflection in the table’s veneer. He runs his fingers through his hair, then grips my hand.

"Holy shit!" Donny says. "Holy, fucking shit." I bet it was drugs; the guy was always coked up you know."

"Maybe it was strenuous sex. My mother said he was with their nanny when it happened. Sophie was away with the kids visiting her parents.” My new contralto voice reverberates throughout the kitchen. Warning, warning: This is what happens to selfish-indulgent men who fool around.

Donny looks at me, his head cocked to one side. There is fear in his eyes, the purest look I’ve seen him wear, in years.

“I know it’s hard to believe, we just watched him blow out his birthday candles.” Donny sits staring into space. “Oh, by the way, you might want to freshen up soon, we may be having company. I’ve invited Paula and Charlie over.”

“Tonight? Why tonight?”

“Especially tonight, with Rob gone and all. Donny, if it weren’t for Rob, we might never have met Charlie and Paula.” I thought you'd be happy. Don’t you like them? Aren’t they the perfect couple Don, you know, as couples go?”

Donny pushes his chair back, stands then sits back down. He lets me continue, get it all out, but there is a trace of loathing in the way he looks at me. It hurts to see that kind of disgust, but it only makes me persist. Why worry about limits now? I’m playing whether I understand the rules or not. That’s what he wants. That’s what he’ll get.

Donny glances out the window. A light crystal rain streak diagonally across the panes. “Alex, I know you have always despised games. I respect that about you.” I feel myself weakening, starting to back down, here comes my about face. Is it a perpetual rash?

“So why do I feel you’re toying with your own stupid version of follow the leader?”

“No one is making you do anything, it’s all in that pretty little head of yours.” Donny gives the top of my skull a gentle knock, knock as he leaves the table.

I think of saying, “Who’s there, or who are you: my husband or adolescent son concocting a noxious potion with your chemistry set—something to blow us all into smithereens?

A Split-Level Life { Excerpt} Sleepwalking

2011-04-19T14:10:00.000-04:00

It is noon before I realize the phone receiver spent the night trapped in the kitchen drawer. As always, Rona manages to be the first to get through to me.

“Well, aren’t you the little chatterbox today,” she says, with an acidic hint of possessiveness that signals: it is time for me to make new friends.

“No, I completely forgot I took the phone off the hook. I’ve been in the bathroom all morning. It must’ve been the chopped meat. The girls and Donny ate pasta and they’re fine.”

“Are you saying it was the chopped chuck from Fernando’s?”

“Ah-huh, probably that order we split of frozen patties.”

“Oh crap, Alex, I just read in Family Circle that you can die from bacteria in spoiled meat.”

I hear doors opening and closing, a frantic shuffle coming through the phone wires as Rona begins emptying her freezer. Like a seasoned cashier, she tabulates aloud: “that’s six filet mignons for $48 bucks, eight shoulder chops equals $ 25, two prime ribs $ 35 and a five pound package of hamburger patties for $15… in zee gar-bage.”

“But it might only be a little virus,” I say. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or come clean, telling her I’d eaten some scrambled eggs, coffee, had a toke and pretty good sex against the bathroom wall.

“I’m not taking any chances,” Rona says. “Hey, do you feel well enough to come over? I’ll fix you something light to eat…tea, toast, and some scrambled eggs. I’d pick you up, but Hy brought the car in this morning for the 5000 mile check-up. So, I really need you to drive me there later so I can get the car. That’s if you’re up to it.”

It serves me right. I’m full up on eggs, but agree to lunch in half an hour. Without going into details, over the telephone, I mention the lovely babysitter, Colleen Byrnes, saying she is no longer under my employment. Rona gasps with the identical intensity she demonstrated over the possibility of food poisoning.

*

The Karl’s home is an immaculate split-level, on the north side of town, "done" in muted tones of beige and mocha— reminiscent of a Danish modern furniture showroom or what is best described as dentist sterile. I often picture Rona and Hy sitting down to a Pillsbury-perfect dinner with their young son Ethan, a sweet nervous boy forbidden to tumble and soil his clothes. As their forks and spoons lift in unison, they appear futuristic and comically robotic. As part of her vows, I bet, Rona has included a policy promising no crumbs, spilled milk, or indelible stains. Yet secretly I envy her strict dedication to order. She would have been the model daughter for my mother the one she would have chosen had she been able to foretell the future. “Oh, Alex, how’s that darling friend of yours?” My mother never fails to ask when she calls weekly from Florida, her question reminding me that I, too, was raised in a home where the pursuit for perfection was revered.

"I thought you and Donny loved your babysitter," Rona says, wiping the tuna salad from the corners of her mouth. I’d love a bite of her tuna, but I’m stuck with the dry rye toast and eggs. She stares me down with her thick, mascara-ed brown lashes. Here in Rona’s spotless Formica kitchen, there is no place to hide. I pretend to look for an old dry cleaning receipt in my bag, stalling to collect my thoughts.

"Yes, we both liked her a lot (my voice breaks on both) and she was great with the girls, but there’s this new boyfriend… someone she met this summer. She's just not as dependable as she was, so"

"Hmm, I'm not surprised she has boyfriends. That kid is drop-dead gorgeous."

"You really think so? Personally, I think she's too damn skinny." Heat wraps around my collarbone. My teeth rip through a piece of dry toast.

"Well, maybe she is a bit too thin, but I'd kill for her hair."

"But it's red, Rona! How would you, of all people, manage all that wild, red hair?"

"Relax, take a breath. I can see you’re upset. You'll find another sitter soon. There are zillions of homely teenage girls hanging out at the new mall with nothing to do on Saturday night."

"That’s depressing." I drain the tea-cup. “I hate having to look for someone all over again.” Tears spring to my eyes. I’m on the brink of spilling the beans.

“Hey, we are talking about a few hours on a Saturday night, and an afternoon here and there. Not a big deal.”

“You know, you’re probably right. I’ll find someone new, maybe more competent and reliable.” I sit up straight and finish my slice of rye. The soggy scrambled eggs are buried underneath my napkin.

“So you’re feeling better already, right?” Rona asks, picking at her molars with a wooden toothpick.

“Yes, I think so. Thanks. Thanks for lunch.”

Rona glances at the chrome clock above her stove. “Come on, we’ve still got some time. Let’s get some shopping done while our little monsters are still in camp, and then you can drop me at the car dealer.”

She stands, and in seconds, loads the dishwasher, freshens her lipstick, grabs her handbag, and is ready to go. I stare at her amazed, at how easily she analyzes any crisis, minor or major, produces a solution, and then ties it up like a bundle of old, worn-out clothes to dump in the Goodwill bin. There is not a trace of sentimentality in deciding to let go. Finished. Done. Next. Rona and I live, not only, on the opposite sides of town; we live on opposite poles of the earth. Still, since moving to Wheatley Heights, I am drawn to her like a piglet to teats, searching for any semblance of nourishment.

Truth is; it’s less lonely to sleepwalk alongside her.

Later that afternoon at her suggestion, I place an ad in the North Shore Tattler. By the following week, I have ten teenage girls scheduled for interviews. One of them is a fourteen-year-old named Agnes who lives half a mile away. She is ebullient in spite of severe acne and the silver fences imprisoning her teeth. I hire her on the spot.

The First Hurt { Excerpt from A Split-Level Life}

2011-04-11T11:12:00.001-04:00

At precisely five o'clock, Fred Rogers’ hypnotic voice fills our large, rustic den. Lana and Becky sit squeezed together, holding hands on Donny's faux leather recliner. Mesmerized by the hospitable gentleman inviting them on his daily journey, their tiny pink tongues poke out and lick the dryness from their lips, and my heart aches with tenderness. Look, Nana, these are your great-granddaughters. Becky's named for you. She has your long, beautiful fingers and silken hair. I have always maintained an open line to my maternal grandmother, who disappointed me only once, by dying.

The automatic garage door rumbles, and I swallow hard. This, the only sound the girls hear over the clanging of the trolley in Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood.

"Daddy's home," Lana announces before returning her thumb to her mouth.

I hear the familiar heavy shuffle of Donny’s feet as he walks through the doorway that connects our garage to the den. His wiry brows are knit together and his shoulders are hunched to his ears, hinting he’s had one rough day at the factory. Donny is no longer the aspiring attorney his father once bragged about. Since his father put him in charge of a brand new division at H. Pearl and Sons, he is an employee, capable of screwing up like all the others.

I cower behind the dining room wall like a cat that’s been shooed away from the table. Donny makes a pit stop into the powder room. I listen to his long, never ending stream. He’s left the door wide open, and I refrain from scolding. But as soon as he charges into the den and lifts Becky and Lana to give them rough nuzzles on their necks, I rush forward and tug at his shirt- sleeve. I've never done this before. In fact, watching Donny with the girls has always filled me with immense pleasure, but now I need him separate — no delicate and fragile props like our children.

"Hi," he says, his kiss missing my cheek as I pull back and stiffen. "What's up? Okay, what did you burn?" He follows me into the kitchen, glancing at a few bills on the table and the blackened Pyrex soaking in the sink. He shoots a sympathetic grin. "I can pick up Chinese?"

"I'm not hungry. I want to talk. Let’s go sit in the living room."

Becky and Lana, having abandoned their fish sticks, are slurping chocolate milk through striped straws. Their rapt attention is on Mr. Rogers, who has just zipped up his beige cardigan.

Donny’s concern is woven with impatience. He passes our white spinet piano and lingers, hits a C chord like in a television drama. Looking at his watch he plops down on the loveseat beside me. I wait while he removes his lenses. Here comes the ritual of rubbing his eyes. If only he could see me now, really see me; but without his "eyes" he's close to legally blind. He hasn’t noticed my sunburn or the mascara streaked beneath my lashes making me look like a baby raccoon.

"Shoot," he says.

"I got a call this morning from Mrs. Byrnes." He looks blank.

“Who’s that?”

“She’s the mother of Colleen…our sitter, remember, Don?” My voice cracks. I take a deep breath and rally to regain my composure. Donny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He pushes his glossy auburn hair back with his hands, and I see his smooth profile, how uniquely handsome he is — how any young teenage girl might confuse his intentions. But, having said her name again, I am trembling. Donny slides over and kneads my shoulder. I can’t, won’t look in his eyes. Instead, I stare at a pulled loop in the area rug, praying Becky and Lana stay put in the den.

"Mrs. Byrnes said you took Colleen to the high school parking lot last night. Why didn't you take her straight home? What the hell were you thinking?"

Donny turns mute, which only frightens me more. I wish he’d say something, anything. When I turn and look at him, he appears filmy through my tears. He is still in profile. His jaw, once hidden by his goatee, sets firmly, and juts forward.

"I thought Mrs. Byrnes was lying, Donny. I screamed and hung up on her. She wasn't lying, was she?" Donny’s face is bloated as if it’s about to explode. I yank away from his firm hold, but he grabs me and presses me hard against his chest. "Tell me why." I am talking into his work-shirt and taking in the dizzying aroma of sewing machine grease.

"I don't know, Alex,” he says somberly. "It was nothing, really. The kid said she was afraid to drive. I told her learning to drives was a snap. All I did was ask if she wanted to try. She said yes. We were in the parking lot for ten minutes at the most."

I try to wiggle away again, afraid that I’ll scratch out Donny’s beautiful hazel eyes. He holds me tighter as if to say, yes, do it if it’ll make you feel better. Hurt me back.

Maybe because of fear and the realization that I have no choice, I begin to picture the stupidity, even find innocence in Donny's act —that childish need of his to feel important. But I can’t forget that the incident occurred way past midnight, and that Colleen is in high school, and he might have been arrested and ruined all our lives.

Alex Pearl, suburban housewife 1974

When Alex Met Donny { Excerpt from "A Split-Level Life"}

2011-04-05T16:29:00.000-04:00

I met Donald Pearl when I was nineteen, technically a virgin, and positive that I'd graduate college unattached, forcing me to live with my parents until they died. We were both counselors at The Weeping Willow Day Camp — me, working after my junior year of college, he, having switched from engineering school to dental school, and finally law school where he was completing his first year. I had observed him during the summer, a few times saying a quick hello — taking note of the variety of Betty or Veronica counselor types he often paired with, a different one each week. Donny doubled as the music counselor, and when he played the beaten up baby grand propped on the camp stage, his head bobbed rhythmically reminding me of Paul McCartney for whom I carried an obsessive crush. Maybe it was the spell of the upbeat music or being surrounded by the chaotic energy of two dozen admiring and adorable tots, but I felt an immediate link to Donny- something unspoken, yet lyrical, telling me he was it. Though I wasn’t exactly thrilled to learn it had a waistline two inches slimmer than mine.

Donny camouflaged his boyishness and smooth ruddy complexion by sporting a short goatee and wearing his wavy auburn hair long and tucked behind his ears. Near the end of the camp season, our grins grew broader whenever we passed each other, an assortment of campers trailing us like twitchy caterpillars. Once, I’d thought I was being nonchalant, but we both turned around to look back. We knew we were running out of time. Then one day after most of the minibuses left to return campers to their respective neighborhoods, Donny sauntered up to me and asked in a low, husky voice for me to hold out my hand. Taken aback, my heartbeat accelerated and I obeyed, as if it were perfectly natural for him to give me a command, as if he and I were already that well acquainted.

"What are you doing?" I asked, giggling. I felt my cheeks redden.

"You'll see," he whispered. His eyes were round and a bit droopy. Yes, he looked just like Paul. It was amazing. Donny leaned his head over my shaky outstretched hand and tugged on his eyelashes a few times until a moist contact lens popped into my palm. The little sphere tickled slightly, and I held my arm out stiffly afraid to move.

"It was in wrong...driving me crazy," he said, wearing this lop-sided grin. Then he peeled the nearly invisible lens from my hand and popped it inside his mouth.

"Don't do that or you'll get a horrible infection. That happened to my college roommate," I scolded gently. Here I was, having a hard time remembering his name, but I was already taking care of him. Had I just passed some test? I wondered if all of Donny’s girlfriends got to feel the warm wetness of his contact lenses swirling around in their palm? He walked alongside me to the counselors’ parking lot, and as I slipped into my Dart convertible, Donny leaned in and asked for my number.

"What about...?" I started to ask.

"Bonnie?"

"Oh, so that's her name."

"Bonnie and I are really good friends," he said.

I looked at him coyly, wanting to ask “come on, do you think I’m an idiot?”

This guy’s probably just another charmer, I thought, so why was I letting him charm me? Reluctantly, I scribbled my phone number on a gasoline receipt and handed it to him. What the hell, there were only two weeks of camp left, and we'd both be heading back to school.

He called two hours later. We went out that night and every night after that for the remainder of the summer. Bonnie and her junior counselor threw me murderous looks each morning when we lined up for roll call. I was sure one of them would try to poison my orange sherbet at lunchtime. Obviously, Bonnie had a different interpretation of what it meant to be Donny’s good friend.

From the novel: A Split-Level Life by Sande Boritz Berger

Mylar: A Split-Level Life c.

2011-03-27T18:02:00.001-04:00

A longer version of this material appeared in TriQuarterly Magazine....A Split-Level Life by Sande Boritz Berger c.

August 1974

I am breathless from a morning of tedious phone chatter — talk I have talked before. Long conversations about how the wallpaper is starting to lift in my powder room — a bathroom with a small pedestal sink shaped like a clam- shell and a very low commode. No one will ever powder there; it’s hard enough to maneuver your body, let alone relieve yourself in the miniscule space. Still, I like the way powder room sounds, and Rona Karl has taught me a great deal about home décor since I moved to Wheatley Heights, a place that boasts of nothing taller than an intrusive water tower standing guard as you enter town.

The phone receiver is crushed between my ear and shoulder while I paprika a rump roast slumped in Pyrex. Struggling to stay tuned to the daily Listen to Rona Show, I slice an onion then blot the stinging with a wet dish-towel. Though my focus is blurred, I can see myself dividing.

One of me, appearing confident and cocky, is propped on the kitchen counter─ sleek legs dangling, shaking a head of wavy blonde hair and hissing at the other me, who, appearing embarrassed, tries to continue a conversation. But Confident and Cocky persists like a mosquito on its bloody mission. Blah, blah, tell me you’re into this garbage? Note: There are no signs of crow’s feet sprouting in the corners of Confident and Cocky’s festive, green eyes. Plus, she’s wearing low-slung hip huggers that fit her like a second skin.

“I was thinking, Rona, I might patch the wallpaper myself, with some Elmer’s.” This is how I often pose a question. Her response is predictable.

“Are you nuts, AL-UX? Do you want to ru-in everything you’ve done?”

“Of course not…you know better about these things.”

“Hold on,” Rona says without curbing her exasperation.

I slide the rusty roast into the Magic Chef and slam the oven door. Where is Confident and Cocky when I need her? She was right here a second ago where’d she go?

Stretching the phone cord to its uncoiled limits, I move to the den and begin dusting the bookshelves. My feather duster is held high like a magic wand. Poof! Make just one wish, Alex. Why is that so hard? There was a time when you had fistfuls of wishes— thought all you needed was the assurance of your beliefs to make them come true.

My shoulder bumps an ancient edition of Monopoly, which sends a slew of dependable cookbooks cascading to the floor. I rearrange the wobbly shelf and rub the grease off the cover of The Fifteen -Minute Quiche. Above the culinary section sits a shelf dedicated to the fine art of gardening and how I’ve learned to rescue my roses from the cruelty of mealy bugs and aphids. On the bottom shelf is a tower of decorating magazines, which have replaced all the fine art books and boast effortless projects like silk flower arranging and chic decorating with sheets.

But shoved in the back of the one skinny drawer of this flimsy teak wall unit, wrapped in a plastic bread bag, is my one little secret: an often-scanned, ear-marked copy of The Sensuous Woman by “J”, and the only book I own in the category of self-improvement. “J” offers a woman’s-eye view with detailed information on how to set off fireworks in the bedroom with tantalizing chapters like “The Whipped Cream Wiggle” and “The Butterfly Flick.” I’d bought the book after Becky’s first birthday not realizing I was already pregnant with Lana. So for now, I’m sticking to decorating with sheets, giving much less thought to what I could be doing on top of them.

“Got a pencil?” Rona’s voice blasts through the receiver, and I stuff the book back in its hiding place.

In the kitchen I fumble through the junk drawer. There are sales receipts for items purchased well over a year ago. A blonde Barbie head topples out and land at my feet. Rona’s breathing turns huffy. She has important things to do like removing finger marks from all her wooden railings. Still, I think she enjoys being my personal, household hint hotline, sharing her bible laden with numbers of service people in a ten- mile radius. Plus she never fails to toss out extra tidbits of information or local gossip: like who was last spotted slinking out of the Pickwick Motor Inn with Bernie Salter, the kosher butcher.

To keep Rona as a friend, I try not to scare her by reciting passages that pop into my head at inappropriate moments. Like now: This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper. Lately, I fear my world might end precisely like this— talking about absolutely nothing on a lemon yellow wall phone.

“This Maybelline pencil will do,” I say.

“The number is 377-Pari…you mustn’t fool around. Call them now, Alux,”

I love how Rona alternates between her London and Brooklyn dialects—a vernacular that conveniently distances her from her eastern European heritage. “They must come and repair the paper before the girls discover the open seam. Then you’ll be sorry!”

I ponder the tragedy facing the Mylar wallpaper dotted with silver swans curling up the bathroom wall, but my pulse remains steady. I actually feel nothing. Nothing at all.

Note:

The narrator is my main protagonist: Alex Pearl.

Blog Posts from the novel: A Split-Level Life

2011-03-21T13:57:00.000-04:00

Just Meat

Prime rib. Rib Roast. Or is it Silver Tip? For years, I have been an Ovo-Lacto vegetarian, but this morning I stand on a line that snakes around three blocks, securing my right of passage into Fernando & Sons Meat Emporium─ this being Fernando’s widely advertised, once yearly, blow-out sale. I jump, startled when two ruddy-faced workers in a noisy pick up, hoot and honk, then brake to survey the selection, as if we, the women on this line, are the meat in the offering: A curvy leg, a lean shoulder, a nice rack of ribs. But no one bats a curly lash to acknowledge them. We concentrate through icy eyes, daring someone, anyone to snag a spot in line.

I’d hurried from the house soon after the girls boarded their camp bus, and noticed how the freshly cut grass shimmered with dew, as if gift-wrapped in cellophane. How a lazy moth, a visitor from the night before, struggled on the cold stone path, its wings heavy with moisture. Once again, I ached for that time: The cool fragrant air stinging my cheeks, my heart pounding as I struggled uphill to Old Main and art class. Some days, I’d stop and dally among the morning shadows before the sun leapt through branches capturing me in its honeyed light. I was alone then, but never lonely.

Now I stand chin to skull with nearly a hundred women waiting, all waiting, for this golden opportunity: the chance to save, to stockpile for next winter─ provisions made from an act of slaughter. Am I the only one watching the floating sky, streaked like the inside of a conch shell, or the Hydrangeas just across the road, weighing on their branches, a bouquet of violet balloons about to burst.

I mumble aloud, desperate to memorize the varied cuts of beef, to be prepared when I enter Fernando’s. My stomach churns like it did before final exams. Any exam. I will not ask my friend Rona, no never, and see that flutter of sympathy in her eyes─ Rona’s downcast look that borders on pity─ a look capable of turning me mute. How can I so easily distinguish a Manet from a Monet, but remain pathetically lost on Chuck Roast, Tenderloin and Filet?

c.2010 Sande Boritz Berger

Snow Day

2011-01-27T11:06:00.000-05:00

I called my daughters this morning, stuck in the 'burbs with their kids at home...again. One was making pancakes ( she'd already be at her desk in the city), the other preparing chili and digging a path for her clients. They reminded me of those sweet old days when me and my brothers burst into my parent's bedroom drunk with glee after the radio announced: MERRICK SCHOOLS CLOSED...my mother, a homebody, clapped, sharing our enthusiasm. I believe, she craved our company...the shift in her domestic schedule, a gift, delivered in the message of snow.

Bridgehampton

2010-08-02T20:48:00.000-04:00

Inspiration

2010-06-17T10:43:00.000-04:00

Lately, I've been asked why I decided to write: The Sweetness, which is a really important question since many writers, while working, rarely stop to ponder the inspiration for what they are putting down on paper.

With this writing endeavor I often felt as though I was taking a trip around the world ( in a rowboat with one oar) and discovering so much I thought I already knew, but in reality knew nothing at all. Or, my knowledge was as basic and superficial as the chapter headings in any social studies text book. Love. Marriage. Illness. War. Death.And Again. That is the way it is sometimes with writing. Was it Flannery O'Connor who said: "We write to discover what we know?" In writing The Sweetness I unearthed a passion for my family's complicated history, why the people I'd loved so much acted as crazy, we called it meshuga, as they often did, and why there seemed to be so many things they would only talk about in dark corners of a room- their voices barely above a whisper. I never set out to write a historical novel; I began writing (at first a short story) about two people inspired by my parents' lives, and slowly became fascinated with their history and all that preceded their union as man and wife. In the process, I rediscovered characters I had only heard about or known briefly but had made a huge impact on our family's colorful tapestry. It was within this framework, that I was able to create characters and revisit events that would eventually lead me to the answers for questions I'd been asking for most of my life.

Freaking me out while I work...Quoth the bat...nevermore!

2010-06-10T22:54:00.000-04:00

Celebrating yourself! A poem.

2010-05-19T18:35:00.000-04:00

AMONG THE MULTITUDES

I am who I am.
A coincidence no less unthinkable
than any other.

I could have different
ancestors, after all.
I could have fluttered
from another nest
or crawled bescaled
from another tree.

Nature's wardrobe
holds a fair
supply of costumes:
Spider, seagull, field mouse.
each fits perfectly right off
and is dutifully worn
into shreds.

I didn't get a choice either,
but I can't complain.
I could have been someone
much less separate.
someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm,
an inch of landscape ruffled by the wind.

Someone much less fortunate,
bred for my fur
or Christmas dinner,
something swimming under a square of glass.

A tree rooted to the ground
as the fire draws near.

A grass blade trampled by a stampede
of incomprehensible events.

A shady type whose darkness
dazzled some.

What if I'd prompted only fear,
Loathing,
or pity?

If I'd been born
in the wrong tribe
with all roads closed before me?

Fate has been kind
to me thus far.

I might never have been given
the memory of happy moments

My yen for comparison
might have been taken away.

I might have been myself minus amazement,
that is,
someone completely different.

~ Wislawa Szymborska ~

(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997,
trans. by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)

2010-05-07T17:55:00.000-04:00

Autism Awareness Day with my daughter Jenn Goodman

2010-04-29T06:24:00.001-04:00

'Jammin Jenn' Uses Music Therapy To Help Kids

On this Autism Awareness Day, Good Day NY profiled the work of one woman show is changing the lives of children affected by the condition. Jenn Pacht Goodman, a.k.a. Jammin Jenn, has been working with kids for the past 13 years with music therapy.

She sees a difference with children with autism and through music reaches into their world to bring them into ours. Research does support the connection between music and memory, motor skills and speech. With personalized songs for each child, the former Broadway singer and aspiring Broadway star believes this is her true calling.

Autism and the power of Music

2010-04-02T12:03:00.000-04:00

Watch this wonderful Fox 5 News segment which is featuring my daughter Jenn Goodman.

Excerpt: The Sweetness by Sande Boritz Berger

2010-03-27T14:11:00.000-04:00

(Amazon novel contest Semi-finalist)

Vilna, 1941
Rosha

Like most Friday nights I wait for Poppa by the cracked parlor window. Leaning against the glass where someone recently threw a fistful of stones, I run my fingers along the spidery break. Bubbe looks up from her crocheting (she is making a wool cap for me in this heat) and scolds. She warns me to move away from the window this minute. There is such fright in her voice that the hairs on my arms shoot straight up. Still I don’t budge.
“They might see you,” Bubbe says, “no matter what Rosha, you must not let them see you.”
And because I am not certain who it is that may be watching me, and Bubbe’s words create even more curiosity in my mind, I must have one more peek.
“I am watching for Poppa, like always, Bubbe, what is the harm?”
Without speaking, my grandmother raises herself up from the creaky wooden rocking chair and crosses the room. The floor appears to sink a bit under each of her steps. My hand is twisted around a piece of lacy white curtain, and as she moves closer, I poke one finger through a circular hole. It is a tiny hole, the center of a floral pattern, maybe roses, and very convenient to peek from. Beside me now, Bubbe peels my bent fingers, one by one, from the curtains.
“Ouch,” I complain. But Bubbe is not really hurting me
“Never mind, mein kind,” she says. She takes both my hands in hers and kisses the top of my forehead. Her breath smells from pickled herring and onions and yet I allow her to kiss me, mostly because she has not yet smacked me. She smacked me only the other day, for the very first time, after she caught me stealing the melted wax from a Yahrtseit candle. Bubbe had lit the large white candle for her husband, my Grandpa Yussel, who died last year of something called the pneumonia. She had slapped my hands until they stung, and said I might have put the entire house on fire, and that children should stay away from matches, flames, and anything hot. But it was so much fun to pour the melted wax into the palm of my hand. Feeling the warmth ooze between my fingers, I rolled the soft glob into many shapes, working quickly before the wax became too brittle like candy. I made a little bear like the ones Poppa says live inside Ponary, a forest only a few miles out of town. Another time, when I didn’t get caught, I’d made a giraffe out of our Friday night shabbos candles.
“Come sit with your Bubbe, and let me hear you read.” She licks her fingers and smoothes my long braids, and now all I can think is now I, too, will smell of pickled herring and onions. But I don’t move. I look up at my grandmother and smile as if I am really happy. I show her my new two front teeth that take up too much space in my mouth.
So my question about what harm can come from standing by the window goes unanswered. Like most of the questions I ask in our house, this one is also ignored. Instead, like always, someone stands or moves around and says something that has nothing to do with my question, until I become very confused, sometimes even frightened.
Still, I try to do what I am told. Especially because of all the tears and sadness since Grandpa Yussel was buried, and Bubbe and Poppa threw red dirt on the pine box that carried his body. Since then, Bubbe spends a lot of time with us on our floor, though she has her own place still, downstairs at 118 Sadowa Street. She and Grandpa Yussel have owned this building for many years, since the family moved here, from many different places, places like Riga in Latvia, Prague in a country I can not say, and some from as far as Budapest, which Poppa says is in Hungary and has nothing to do with being hungry.
Bubbe is Poppa’s mother, and so he often teases her that she spends much too much of her time worrying about things that aren’t real. And I think, oh yes, like over me burning down the house and putting us out on the street. Thank you, Poppa.
Once I almost said, Poppa, now I see why you are so careful to always do or say the right thing, so not to make a mistake; isn’t that a little bit like worrying? But I kept the thought inside. Besides, I love to watch when Poppa thinks long and hard about a problem. I laugh when the pointy V appears between his bushy dark eyebrows, and his tongue pokes in and out like bait teasing for an answer. No matter how hard the question, Poppa always finds an answer.
Lately, there are lots of people with questions, and talk that sounds mostly like worry. Wherever we go down Sadowa Street, to the grocer, the butcher, the tailor or to the open market before each weekend, all we hear are people’s deep sighs and the dry clucking sounds made by their tongues. When they talk, their heads shake and smiling eyes turn dark as they whisper. All of which makes me think I am not paying good enough attention. That I am indeed a dreamer as Bubbe likes to mention time and time again.
Wearing her Friday evening dress-up apron, Mama walks out of the kitchen and marches straight to the scrunched up curtains. She pretends to be fluffing them out, but I know she is looking for Poppa. I know because of what she says next. What no one has ever said before.
“It is nearly sundown, and Mordecai is late. Could he have forgotten today is Friday?” She asks Bubbe. “No one in our shtetl is to be out after dark. Everywhere they have patrols.” Mama stops talking as fast as she started realizing I am listening to her every word.
I am split into three separate pieces: one piece thinking, of course, about Poppa’s whereabouts; the second, trying to understand the meaning behind Mama’s words; and mostly wanting to go sit in Bubbe’s mushy lap, to forget everything and help her roll up a skein of the pretty pink yarn.
While Mama circles the table arranging the dinner plates, I squeeze my eyes shut and think of us all together before everything became so mysterious and confusing. Before I had to stay at home to learn my lessons, while some of my friends still went to the neighborhood school. Before the soldiers with those scrunched-up mean faces stood guard on every corner and forced people to empty their pockets for no reason at all.
I miss playing outdoors, especially now in warmer weather. It was only a few weeks ago when Mama and me went about our Friday preparing for Shabbos. I remember how the heat settled on the cobblestones baking them after they were washed by the shopkeepers. Mama and I counted the rainbows that danced upon the rock’s slippery surfaces, brightening the dull blues and grays until the colors blended into the hot, humid air. I was glad Mama had seen the rainbows as well, or Poppa might not have believed me. He might have asked if I was “stretching the truth” like, I’ll admit, I do sometimes to get his attention. But because he wears a wide grin when he asks, I know a little bit of truth-stretching is far from a terrible thing.
The warm sun sat on our shoulders as we made our way down the aisles of the open market, located in the square, steps from the old synagogue. Though now we can no longer pray there at night. I miss watching the hundreds of candles flickering behind the bimmeh, near the carved doors that hold the Torah and the ancient scrolls. Everyone stands up when they take out the Torah, they unroll it tenderly as if they are handling a newborn, and people, once even Poppa, was called to read a story in special Hebrew words.
That morning Mama bought two whole chickens from Mr. Gursko─ one for Bubbe, which she says will last an entire week since Bubbe eats like a birdie herself now with her Yussel gone, and one for us, though I won’t swallow one bite since I looked up at the exact moment that Mr. Gursko chopped off the chicken’s droopy head. All I can think about is the blood squirting like soda pop on Mr. Gursko’s white jacket and the red speck that landed on his nose the precise moment of impact. Yes, I am done with chicken. I will agree to some spoonfuls of potato soup, a slice of Mama’s stringy flanken, but not one bite of chicken.
We made our last stop Mrs. Juraska, the candle maker. Mama likes to keep a supply of candles in the drawer next to the silverware, and so almost every week she stops to chat with Mrs. Juraska who sometimes let me watch her make her candles when she wasn’t too busy. She took me in the back of her tented space and showed me the hundreds of little tin molds she used, the large blocks of paraffin and the vials of food coloring and dried wildflowers that she often presses into wax molds.
The candle maker, who is only a few years older than Mama, looks as old as Bubbe. I wonder if that’s because she has two children and Mama has only me. I once heard her telling Mama that children can rob the life out of you. Still, I wish, sometimes, Mama would have another. It would be nice to have a baby sister with whom I could play indoors. Sometimes, it gets very lonely here on Sadowa Street.
“Rosha, you are getting so tall,” Mrs. Juraska said, her eyes widening with such surprise. She was wrapping four long white candles in dark brown paper, reminding us they might melt if we didn’t go straight home.
“She is much too skinny, my precious Rosha. Not so tall,” Mama said, paying the smiling candle maker, “she eats just like her grandmother. The food seems to grow in her plate.” Mama brushed my hair back with her fingers. I grabbed her pinky and held it tight.
“Well, you never know Mrs. Kaninsky, one day she may be as big as a house or like the monument on the square, a real hausfrau like me. I, too, was once a very scrawny child. Thank goodness my husband likes a little flesh on his women.
Mama tried to be polite and smiled. Impossible, I thought quietly, me, a big girl? I gazed down the street to the bronze statue of a heavy peasant woman carrying a basket of fruit on her head. Pigeons have made it a favorite nesting spot, and there is usually white pigeon poop dripping down the poor woman’s face.
Just as we were about to leave, Mrs. Juraska held up two long tapered candles. They were peach-colored and wavy like hair ribbons. I had never seen such beautiful candles, but Mama shook her head no.
“Nothing too fancy for shabbos,” she said, and smiled. “Only pure white.” Then she said: “but perhaps another time, and I felt happy picturing the wavy candles glowing on our dinner table, or on the shelf near the kitchen window. As soon as we walked away, Mama leaned in and whispered what I never knew. “Mrs. Juraska is a Catholic woman,” she said, and her husband is like us− He is Jewish.”
“Really?” I said, and then Mama said she’d forgotten something.
“Wait here, Rosha.” I saw Mama dig deep into her satchel and hand Mrs. Juraska a white envelope. I thought maybe she had forgotten to pay her but then I remember seeing a few sheckels pass between their fingers.
“What was that, Mama?” I asked when she grabbed my hand again and started walking towards home.
“What was what, Rosha?”
“Never mind,” I said. I was too hot, too tired and nauseous thinking about the poor dead chicken.
I wondered if the candle maker ever got the chance to light and enjoy all the beautiful candles she made. I really wanted to know. Did she and her husband celebrate the Sabbath? Did she watch them glow against the walls and ceilings of her home through long summer evenings until their flames flickered and the wax disintegrated into nothing. But Mama sighed loudly and said: “Enough with the questions, Rosha, it’s late, time to go home.”

“Thank God, Thank God,” Bubbe and Mama sing together like a chorus. Poppa’s footsteps sound exactly like thunder. I imagine him climbing the stairs two at a time, each step stamped like the period at the end of a sentence. When he enters the room he is out of breath and sweating, carrying his suit jacket over his arm.
Bubbe stays glued to her chair, but she is rocking back and forth so hard I am afraid she may go flying across the room. Mama runs to Poppa, her eyes searching every inch of him, every speck.
“I waited to light the candles, Mordecai. Is everything all right?” Mama glances in my direction; she suddenly remembers I’m in the room. “Never mind, we’ll talk later. Go now, wash up.”
I am standing next to the buffet table getting ready to do my special job, the one I do every Friday night. Carefully, I fit the tall white candles into their shiny silver holders so they will not tip over onto the doily when Mama says the blessing into her hands before lighting them.
“I’m going to change out of my damp shirt,” Poppa says, moving quickly past the women in this room. His women, he calls us. He places a kiss on the back of Mama’s neck, nods to Bubbe who stalls in her chair. And just when I am certain he has forgotten me, he sticks his fingers into my ribs for a surprise tickle making me giggle and buckle at the knees.
“Hurry Morde,” Mama says, stealing away my fun with Poppa. He tosses his jacket across the arm of a dining room chair. Mama picks it up, shakes it out, then stares.
“What’s that, Mama?” But like so many questions─ the too many I’m told I ask, this one does not need an answer. What I see, what we all see, is as clear as the glass that used to shine brightly in our parlor window. Wrapped tightly around the sleeve of Poppa’s jacket is a cuff made out of gauzy, dark cloth. Sewn into the middle and as large as the melting July sun is a huge six-pointed, yellow star. In the middle, are the letters: J-U-D-E.

Brooklyn, 1941

Mira

In stocking feet, Mira Kane leaned into the gilded vanity mirror to apply the final touches of make-up. She was already on her third coat of mascara, thinking: apply wet brush to cake, make creamy, again and again, until her long black lashes looked as though they were about to take flight. But wasn’t that exactly how Betty’s looked, and Joan’s, and Jean’s? She had studied the glossy pages of Modern Screen as if it were a medical journal describing an intricate life-saving procedure. At last, Mira thought she had the technique down to a science.
Yet, her most skillful trick was to sneak from the house before her parents arose from their warm cushiony beds. More than once they had made it a point to tell her that they hated whenever she looked “painted.”
“We don’t understand, daughter. Why do you wish to look thirty when you’re only eighteen?” her mother had asked only last week when halting Mira at the top of the landing. Her father quickly ushered Mira into the bathroom, tossed her a washcloth and stood there, hands on hips, while she scrubbed her entire face, until it was free of all pancake make-up, lipstick and mascara. Even the perfect beauty mark she’d penciled on her cheek swirled right down the drain. Mira was furious, but, as always, bit her tongue. Satisfied, but perhaps a bit guilty, having witnessed her daughter’s obvious disappointment, Mira’s mother cast one small, pitying gaze.
As if to say she truly liked the face Mira had created— the one that altered her into the glamorous young woman standing before her, hiding the gawky teenage girl.
But today luck seemed to be on her side. As she tip-toed down the long hallway to the staircase, she could hear her parents’ loud harmonious snoring, rising and falling in perfect sync with Big Ben─ the mahogany clock that stood like a staunch and dependable watchman on the landing. The time was 7:05 A.M., and in just minutes Mira would be flying out the door on her way to the most exciting place in the world, New York City. It was the one place where she could pretend to be whoever she pleased. Here she could block out all concerns about her parent’s approval, worrisome thoughts that often draped her shoulders like an invisible shawl.
Mira scanned the hallway, settling on the cut-glass knob attached to the door that gave entry into Aunt Jeanette and Aunt Rena’s room− her father’s two unmarried younger sisters. Next door, slept Roy─ Mira’s older and only brother who shared a room with the bachelor Uncle, Louie, the oldest male in the Kane family. Everyone who resided in this house on Avenue T was employed by Kane Knitting— everyone but Ina Kane, Mira’s mother, who managed to keep busy by chairing various charity benefits, fancy luncheons attended by be-jeweled, buxom women, not to mention the planning of elaborate dinners for her own family.
The aunts, Jeanette and Rena, worked in the sewing plant, supervising the finishing process of the knitwear, while brother, Roy, and Uncle Louie haggled with buyers from the company’s plush midtown showroom. That is, when the two weren’t screaming their lungs out at suppliers or hurling blame at each other for any new faux pas, of which lately there were many.
Now though, during the early morning hours, before the familiar clatter of breakfast dishes, and the windstorm of hurled resentments, the atmosphere was blissfully tranquil, void of the unexpected commotion that was capable of sending Mira out feeling unnerved and jittery─ making it difficult for her to catch her breath. Today, alone in the house she had grown to love so much, she felt almost royal, as if roaming a lavish, medieval castle. She knew she was privileged to enjoy such privacy, which was certainly a rarity for the only daughter of Ina and Charles Kane.
A rough spot on the wooden banister snagged one of her brand new stockings.
“Ouch!” Mira said, “Damn!” She leaned over and straightened her seams, wondering if royalty ever cursed, and imagining what punishment might befall them if caught in the act. When she approached the vestibule, she was startled by Hattie, the housekeeper, who was spitting into a dust rag and about to buff an ornate cherry wood table.
“My, my, dear girl,” Hattie said, one hand pressed against her chipmunk cheeks.
“Shh!” Mira brushed past her and reached for her black portfolio that she’d kept on the floor of the hall closet. “Not one word, Hattie, please.”
“But those stockings, Mira. Mr. K. will have himself a conniption.”
“They’ll be off by the time he gets home tonight for dinner. Besides, all the girls in the city wear nylons. They ‘re so much sleeker than old bobby sox, don’t you agree?”
“All right, then, but what about that ridiculous speck growing out of your cheek?” Hattie pressed her damp fingers to Mira’s skin. She stood so close that Mira could smell the Nescafe layered on her breath. She smiled noticing her own reflection in Hattie’s warm brown eyes. Leaning in, she puckered her lips in place of a kiss before flying out the front door. As usual Mira was late.
Today, her favorite day, Friday, she wore a tailored gray knit gabardine suit with a peplum jacket─ one of her father’s most successful and early sell-out styles. She’d placed a pink sleeveless sweater underneath to show off her nearly alabaster skin. Mira’s face was framed by jet black hair, which she tied in a netted snood at the nape of her neck. On this dewy June morning, the lilac bushes and honeysuckle were bursting with fragrance; bees brushed past Mira as if in a frenzy. She picked some honeysuckle and tasted the sweet nectar. Nature, better than any breakfast, she thought. She felt lucky to feel this unbound, this free of any cares. But then she reminded herself not to take anything for granted. To do so would be irresponsible. Under her breath, she began her ritual of thanking God. If she forgot to thank Him, she was certain something dreadful would happen to her or her family. She didn’t mind the power of this fear, how it was adhered to her like an extra layer of skin; she was certain she needed it to keep herself in check. Only lately, had she begun to worry that her prayers could not influence the problems that seemed to be multiplying in other parts of the world. She had pressed her ears to her parent’s door on many nights and heard the deep fear that resonated in their pillow talk. The talk was always the same. Why hadn’t they heard from Mira’s uncle, wife and small child that had remained in Vilna because of his job?
Her long, thin legs carried her down the terracotta steps of her parents’ three-story brick and stucco home, and as she did most mornings, she paused to glance back at the house that gave her such pride. For a second, she thought she saw the curtains moving, ever so slightly, in the second floor window at her parent’s bedroom. Just in case and because she felt jubilant, Mira blew a kiss in their direction. She imagined them beaming, perhaps poking each other gently and whispering: There goes our lovely young daughter. Isn’t she something? If they only knew how often she dreamed of running away they would be heartbroken. But now, all she could do was study hard and work hard and maybe one day her talent would be discovered. Maybe one day she would be on her own.

The Kane residence on Avenue T was the grandest of three Spanish style homes on a densely tree-lined block in the section of Brooklyn, which intersected Ocean Parkway. Over the years, the area had become an integral part of the affluent neighborhood of Syrian and Eastern European Jews where people often strolled, pushed prams or just relaxed on benches playing cards or chess, catching up on the latest gossip. Police officers, wearing shiny black boots, sat astride stately horses trotting up and down the designated center aisle of Ocean Parkway where redwood benches and bicycle racks sat parallel to manicured lawns─ emerald in tone and lush with the spring shrubbery of fuchsia and white azaleas.
As Mira reached the corner of Ocean and Avenue T, she squinted and spotted her bus heading west about a quarter a mile away. She’d have to make a mad dash across two local lanes, the grassy park area, and the double lane parkway. And, as she did most mornings, not waiting for the light, Mira raised up her large black portfolio as a shield from the oncoming traffic. She surprised herself that she could sometimes be so fearless, for someone with a million fears, or as her brother preferred to label her— so incredibly idiotic.
“Thank you, thank you,” she yelled, as cars came to a dead halt, short of a pile-up, allowing her to cross and reach the bus stop.
Today, her bus driver was Jackie, (she made it her business to know their names) and he just shook his head. He had witnessed Mira’s brazen routine too many times before. “Come on, Mira, move it, girl. Ain’t you a little young to be sporting those stilettos? And hey, what you got on your cheek, lady?”
Out of breath, her heart soaring underneath the sweater, Mira put a nickel in the metal box and plopped down on the seat behind him. She was totally out of breath and loved the feeling of complete surrender. Jackie usually had some comment about her looks. She expected it and had no intention of answering him. She placed the portfolio horizontally on her lap, apologizing to the little woman in the next seat who she had accidentally bumped. The woman smiled broadly mumbling in a thick Yiddish accent. The only words Mira could decipher were Shana Maidele, which she knew meant: pretty girl.
“Thank you,” Mira said, fiddling with hairpins in the netted snood that had loosened. The woman, about sixty, reminded Mira of a munchkin from her favorite movie─ The Wizard of Oz. Her feet didn’t even come close to touching the floor. She wore her peppered gray hair chopped short. Her eyes sparkled with flecks of green and gold. Mira detected the familiar smell of mothballs, most likely, from clothes that had been stored away during the winter. The woman motioned towards Mira’s portfolio.
“Vat’s that, dear?”
“I go to school,” said Mira, “for fashion design.” The woman stared at her blankly, and Mira referred to her suit, sweeping her hand along the buttons, gesturing to her waistline. Still no response, so Mira unzipped her portfolio and the woman shimmied in closer. Their heads touched only slightly as they looked through the several sketches in Mira’s book. But any onlooker might think they were related. The woman reached out and ran her fingers over one of the drawings. Most were of very attractive young women wearing Mira’s designs. Some of them actually resembled Mira, especially the one wearing a beauty mark placed precisely on the left cheek.
The fashions themselves were upscale and elegant, not what anyone would expect emanating from an eighteen-year-old imagination. Mira had used her paints to simulate fabrics like shiny satins and plush velvets. Her brush strokes were so fine that she managed to create the look of fur trim along a sweeping dolman sleeve. She used sparkles of silver and gold glitter to indicate beading. Her teachers constantly had showered her with praise and some of their notes were written in the far corners of the sketches: “Spectacular, Mira” or “Mira, no doubt you have a future in couture!” Without hesitation the woman leaned over and planted a slightly moist kiss on Mira’s cheek. The gesture seemed so genuine that Mira was immediately overwhelmed with pride. Again, the woman spoke, and although Mira didn’t understand a single word of what she was saying, she could tell by her exuberance that the woman was impressed, and so, to be respectful she nodded her appreciation enthusiastically.
As they neared Mira’s stop, she began tucking several loose sketches into a folder and gathering up her things. Though tempted, she decided not to share her very latest design, mostly because she wasn’t quite sure the work was finished, and until she had given the design every last drop of her scrutiny, it would have to remain under wraps.
The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a small picture, its edges frayed and worn. She tugged at Mira’s suit sleeve, coaxing her to please have a look. It was a photo of a young man in his early twenties. Leaning against the side of a brick building, though it was hard to tell, he looked quite tall and slender. His hair was dark, rather glossy and worn parted down the middle. His expression was that of quiet seriousness and impatience, as if annoyed at being photographed. Mira instantly liked that. She could see he was handsome but without an air of vanity or arrogance like too many of the boys from the neighborhood. Boys from such well-to-do families, boys like her brother, Roy, spoiled American boys, passively parented by hard-working European parents. Perhaps all this giving made up for the hard adjustment of leaving their homeland and coming to a place with such freedom.
“Your son?” Mira asked, holding the photo close to her eyes before returning it.
“Boychick,” the woman nodded, enthusiastically. Her face became nearly angelic while she stared at the picture as if for the very first time.
“Oh, so nice,” Mira said as she stood up from her seat. “He looks like a lovely young man.” She turned once to wave goodbye before stepping down from the bus. The woman held out the picture as if she were offering it as a gift, but just as Mira was about to take it, the doors closed. Jackie shook his head, once more, having witnessed Mira’s near tumble onto the sidewalk. As she watched the bus pull away, a strange wave of sadness swept over Mira piercing the vivacity she had felt upon awakening this morning. She routinely checked her portfolio and all of her supplies. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t shake the awful tugging sensation− a sense that she had been careless, leaving something important behind. Once more, she mumbled a prayer to her ever present God. She fought the desire to glance over her shoulder. She counted to three. Giving in, she allowed herself one tiny peek but saw nothing.

Rosha Away

All night long they whisper. Once I thought I heard Mama weeping, so I leaned against their bedroom door and tried my hardest to listen. (continued)

Meeting Teacher Man

2009-07-29T20:42:00.000-04:00

Summer 2002

Though I hadn’t actually written a memoir, he accepted me into his workshop anyway. Terrified to dig that deep, I had written a novel instead, inspired by true events. Yet, part of me felt like an imposter.
On that very first day of class, we handed in our chapters and were told he would read and return them, graded, at the next scheduled workshop. Graded? I hadn’t been graded since college during the Stone Age and instantly felt the trepidation of impending failure.
Later that same afternoon, while dining in a local café with my husband Steve whose job is to feed me and simultaneously boost my fragile ego, I glanced out the window to see the teacher man, himself, strolling down the street. He looked a bit lost, a tad lonely and overheated, dressed in a yellow Lacoste and khaki shorts.
“Oh my God,” I squealed. That’s my teacher! There he is… Frank McCourt.”
Steve jumped to his feet and was out the door in a millisecond. Through the fogged glass, I watched the strong handshake, took note of the ease and comfort with which these two men met─ writer/ teacher and lawyer/ litigator. Before I could take my first sip of Merlot, Steve and Frank were inside the café, sitting down at my table, Steve now ordering Frank a glass of wine.
“Well, aren’t you the shy fella?” he’d said jokingly to Steve in his unmistakable lyrical speak while I sat there a smile frozen on my face. I was reminded of the time when I was twelve and had seen my science teacher at the bakery. I didn’t know what to talk about: Protons? Inertia? Certainly not the sliced rye I was buying for my mother.
During class that morning, I had not spoken one word to the man─ the writer I admired and felt blessed to have as a teacher, if only for ten days. I’d spent the first class session scribbling down every word he said. I wrote furiously, afraid to miss a phrase or nuance. I was certain I was recording some form of gospel that I could later channel─ tools to make myself a much better writer. I was convinced that if I had only read Joyce, by now, my writing career would be soaring. And why was it that I got married (twice) and had my babies so soon? And why did I listen to my guidance counselor, Mr. Jordan, when he’d said teaching was the career I could always fall back on? Hadn’t I wanted to be a writer since I was ten when I’d hidden curse words between the ivy vines of my wallpaper? Maybe those were the words that could connect me to the story still not told.
Like a mantra, one thought pervaded. Did he read my chapter? This is what I wondered, knees knocking, as these men’s men chatted on like pub pals about basketball─ specifically the N. Y. Knicks. Where had I gone while they made that smooth transition from hello, nice to meet you, to the missed lay-ups of Charles Smith that had kept the Knicks out of the NBA finals? Talk about memoir.
Finally, I blurted out: “Ah, did you, by any chance, get to read my chapter?” It was the voice of a timid third grader that slid out my mouth and disintegrated into the aromatic air of sautéed garlic─ a question from the scrawny kid who puked each morning before going to the bus stop, praying Harvey Schacter wouldn’t aim snowballs at my head.
“I did,” he answered, with only the slightest nod. And that was all he said, and they then moved on to some legal discussion about some infringement case.
Maybe a half hour passed, maybe more. I can’t be sure since all I could focus on was that he had read my work and probably hated it…probably thought I should have stuck to teaching or had a dozen more babies, or become a candy striper at my local hospital.
I looked up from my wilted lettuce and decided to enjoy myself. I was sitting there with someone I loved, who loved me and this teacher man─ almost a stranger, but someone whose writing, in all its heartbreaking honesty, had made me want to write more, to write better, to break through so many self-imposed barriers. That morning in class he had recited the quotation: I look for the pain and then start writing.
Before too long, he stood, muttered a polite thank you and goodbye.
“See you tomorrow then,” I managed, dabbing at my lips with my napkin.
“A”, he said, his face as serious as the brutal humidity still lingering outside.

Sande Boritz Berger
Published in The Southampton Review Summer 2009

Asking Dad

2009-06-21T15:11:00.000-04:00

Many years ago, when I’d asked my father if I could interview him for a course assignment, he seemed a bit hesitant. “Okay, but don’t ask me anything about my sex life,” he cautioned. I promised that I would oblige, even though he had just raised my curiosity level to an all time high. To save money, and because frugality defined him, he suggested I call him on his Watts line in Florida─ at the decorator fabric company where he worked part time as a credit manager. When I finally called, he immediately said : “Okay kid, shoot.” Dad was ready for me, wanting to know how long this would take. Even in semi-retirement, he remained a busy, conscientious no-nonsense guy. I tried loosening him up a bit by talking about my daughters, his favorite subject, and slowly his defenses softened. Although he was 67 at the time, he said he felt like 39. He was sure that had something to do with not retiring completely and feeling valuable in the business world. I asked my father if he harbored any regrets. He answered no just a little too quickly, which made me remember how he once said he wanted to be a doctor or a dentist. Since his mother was widowed young, left with three small sons, Dad the youngest, he quickly pushed away that dream. But when we were growing up, Dad became our in-house medic whenever any of us got sick. A dot of Mercurochrome could cure anything from a little scratch to a massive bug bite. And he was a master at pulling out a dangling tooth.
When I asked about his proudest accomplishments, he said: raising a family where everyone could stand on their own feet, where nobody was “screwed up.” I giggled then hearing a bit of Archie Bunker and wondering if he knew I was still in therapy.
But I wanted specifics about him. He was a 90 Day Wonder in the Navy learning the equivalency of 4 years of college in three short months. He had invented and patented a snow tire contraption that unfortunately never sold. And he had owned his own fabric company in New York City for over twenty years. Suddenly, I became aware of the role reversal with my strong, dominating father. I was enjoying the control and of course his undivided attention. I made him vulnerable with a question about his childhood: what was his most vivid childhood memory? Dad didn’t hesitate for a second when he told me he was three years old when he’s crawled up into his dying father’s bed and fed him some grapes. He said he remembered his father’s glowing smile.
His advice to his grandchildren and the future great-grandchildren was to concentrate on their education. He stressed learning as a most powerful tool. He hoped his loved ones would learn to cope with change and reality in this new and difficult world.
Time was running out, but I wanted to ask how he felt about being interviewed by me, his only daughter. “ Good,” Dad said flatly. “I always thought we had a good rapport. We could always talk about any subject, and say things to each other, what’s the word?” he said.
“Love?” I beckoned.
“Yes,” he answered quickly. “That and communication…that’s it, communication!”

Just Smile

2009-06-06T17:06:00.000-04:00

On any given day, it can be a choice. Misery or happiness? That’s assuming I'm functioning pretty well, and don’t need Dr. Quackinbush to come to the rescue. I’m not obsessing over a suspicious mole or lump, there’s food in the fridge (too much food), and the mortgage, like always, will… be… paid. So why is it so easy to slip through the fissure into misery…feeling like I may never return? It might be something as simple as the rain, constant rain and the deprivation of sunlight, or the lack of sleep, my body’s need for exercise, or that God awful dream imbedded in the depths of REM. Or, it could be that same exact time of year, like so many years ago─ a time of deep loss that returns mysteriously─ in the scent of a flower, the face of a stranger, the lyrics of a song. Snap out of it, I say. And usually I can. This woman I met gave me a tool that really works: First thing in the morning, if I feel myself sliding down that slippery pole, I smile the widest smile I can. Like a child posing for a picture with Mom and Dad. Hold for ten seconds. Say a cheery good morning out loud. Breathe.

And The Winner is...

2009-05-27T21:45:00.000-04:00

There is something about writing contests that usually makes me uncomfortable. Yes, I know they are a popular way for literary reviews to gain revenue, and without this competition many quality publications might not survive. Depending on subscriber fees can hardly get the job done. But knowing that sometimes I am sending out work and that 2000 people or more are competing for the same prize makes me stop and wonder: Maybe I’d be better off sending my writing to a literary review under the heading of general submission. But then guilt sets in. Shouldn’t I help support the very thing I aspire to? Good writing… work that is often the cream of the crop. Contests, in general, have a way of revving up my heartbeat; my competitive edge begins pumping as if I were training for a marathon. One of my earliest writing contests was when I was eight or nine years old. I had to send in my list of names to the TV station for Lassie’s new puppies. I can remember how smug I felt, how certain the names I’d come up with were going to win, and the prize, of course, was a puppy. One Sunday night after having dinner with all my relatives in Brooklyn, we sat down and we waited together for the list of winners, which appeared after the credits for that week’s episode. Silence. The clucking of tongues. Murmurs in broken Yiddish. Oh, that feeling of defeat. I can still taste it. How I ran from the room sobbing…How could this have happened? I was a child with an ego like the Sears Tower. A few weeks later, my aunt Faye arrived at our house on Long Island carrying a wicker basket with a checkered blanket. Underneath was a new puppy, our russet cocker spaniel that I named Taffy. This loving deed and gift from my wonderful aunt was much appreciated, but did nothing to prepare me for future competitions, not to mention…life.

Sex and Writing

2009-05-05T10:31:00.000-04:00

Writing about sex or describing a sexual encounter between your characters can be extremely challenging. How do you keep the language fresh─ new, different and certainly evocative? Recently, my thesis advisor said she could actually feel me blushing when I wrote a honeymoon scene that takes place in the early 1940’s. Perhaps, that was because the couple in the scene is based on my parents and their two weddings─ one an elopement to Virginia on a snowy Xmas Eve, and the second, a few months later, a religious ceremony held in a big catering hall for all their friends and family.

It was difficult to write the scene of their wedding night. I felt myself turning into a squeamish teen…Mom and Dad? Yuck! I was also aware of trying to write in relationship to the times and decade. Though sex is sex, the language of sex, the romanticism of the times had to come into play. I stayed away from the clinical and went for the atmosphere, the pressures of war, the coyness of the bride and the naiveté that comes with youth and inexperience. Basically, I tired to stay true to the characters personalities. But mostly, in order to get through the writing, I had to detach.

Here’s Some Basics heard at an AWP conference in NYC:

1. Make your own rules
2. Don’t be afraid
3. Don’t tease
4. No fish-net stockings
5. if it hurts then say so.
6. show that sex is messy
7. be reckless
8. make it hot
9. full steam ahead
10. it’s okay to blush ( I added this one!)

Beauty in the Eyes...

2009-04-17T14:40:00.000-04:00

Someone stands on a stage ready to perform. She is booed and hissed at because she is plain, ordinary, yes, terribly dowdy. She opens her mouth and out comes the most extraordinary musical notes, her voice, this instrument, pure and crisp, a gift from God. Suddenly, the perspective is changed and the prejudice ingrained for decades, a lifetime is quieted by the mere act of listening...closing our eyes to the surface, of every surface we scan and judge every single day. by doing so, we are enriched. What if someone bathed and born to beauty had sung the same magnificent notes. Would we have really heard them? Or would what we had seen "at face value" have gotten in the way, robbed us of the whole experience?

2009-04-10T14:55:00.000-04:00

Mom

2009-04-10T14:52:00.000-04:00

Next week is the first anniversary of my mother’s passing. She died right before Passover, so this week especially, I have been trying to remember every little detail of my last visit with her, which turned out to be just hours before she died. Truth be told, I hadn’t seen my mother in almost eight years, and luckily got to be by her bedside in time to say goodbye and much, much more. An explanation of all that would take more than a few volumes, and frankly might bore most to tears. My good friends and loved ones are certain my mother waited for me, knew that once I heard she was ailing, I would be by her side. Our relationship had been tumultuous from the first day I voiced an opinion of my own. I think my mother expected we would have the same relationship she had known with her own mother─ close, connected, with few outside influences. My grandmother’s friends became my mother’s friends, her social network confined mostly to family. But it was a much different time, and my mother never got the chance to fulfill any of her own youthful dreams. She wanted to be a fashion designer and at the age of seventeen she showed enormous promise. Unfortunately, she did not get the support or encouragement she needed and then came the war, a husband and two babies within a few short years. Although my mother sometimes showed pride in me and my accomplishments there was always this underlying feeling of competition that made me feel guilty for being me. Above all, I wanted her love. In those last few hours, as sad as it might be, I believe we both got what we wanted.

Choir Girl

2009-04-01T20:22:00.000-04:00

Choir Girl

My high school alma mater Sanford H. Calhoun in Merrick, N.Y. is celebrating its 50th
anniversary at the end of April. Originally, I was planning on not attending. I envisioned hundreds of squinting people trying to recognize former classmates since the reunion spans decades of graduates, and besides, I have nothing to wear. But, when I heard they were planning to honor my beloved choir teacher, Tal Thayer, for his many years of service and dedication, and that there will be a performance especially for him, I knew I couldn’t miss it. Choir was why and how I got my high school letter─ the only letter I received that I wore proudly on a big white cardigan sweater. So now it’s my turn for pay back. But terror has finally struck. I received sheet music via the internet for “When Rooks Fly Homeward” and “Lord Bless You and Keep You.” Let me say straight out: I am Jewish, which means once I graduated, I never sang religious Choral music again. This does not mean I haven’t been known to belt out “Oh Holy Night” in the shower or car when no one’s around. So, now, to refresh my memory I’ve gone to You Tube and listened to several choral renditions of those selections. A couple of strange things happened: I fell in love all over again with acapella music even though I’ve forgotten how to spell it. I listened to high school choirs, college choirs, and children’s choirs until I realized what I think I’ve known for a very long time─ I’m no longer a soprano. Can’t reach those high notes like I did at seventeen. I was one of those “stupid sopranos” that refused to blend. That made Mr. Thayer’s eyes bulge like a porpoise behind his wire glasses. So I may have to do what I once did when I just couldn’t get that trill….mouth it.

First Blog

2009-03-30T11:43:00.000-04:00

Since this is my first blog, I want to say straight out: don’t feel compelled to read any of this. I, myself, have read very few blogs, and while I am impressed by the themes and subject matter people expound on, I am more impressed how they actually find the time to jot down these thoughts to make themselves understood. I hope that my blogging will act as a warm-up exercise for the many projects on the back burner that have been simmering way too long.

Firsts are exciting, yet firsts can be very scary, even after kindergarten. Actually, I never attended kindergarten and therein lay the problem. I went from nursery school straight to the first grade, becoming the youngest of my classmates, which had advantages, but only as I was about to graduate high school. I could date the senior boys who most of my girlfriends thought were idiots or babies; I had a whole extra year to learn they were absolutely right.

The Beginning

The uncertainties of childhood, simple pleasures that were quickly invaded by fear became my motivation for writing. I often felt as though whatever was happening was happening just to me. I wondered who could possibly understand what it was like to be inside my skin? And then I began to read. Reading became my great escape. Our town’s wood- shingled library resembled a one room schoolhouse. To enter through the red painted door was like entering a womb, especially on the days I might have been teased or disappointed by a friend. I can still picture the cramped, cluttered interior, the faces of the other regulars, some were the school losers. Was I one of them too? I’d spend hours perusing the shelves, sniffing the inside covers smelling the sappiness of paper, the slight chemical smell of printer’s ink.

I was drawn to biographies or stories about young people from different cultures and countries. I could lose myself completely, disappear, become someone else, if only for a few days. I devoured every book on Lincoln, Ben Franklin, Clara Barton, and then there was the martyr─ my favorite: Joan of Arc. Somewhere in my young mind, I filed away the important virtues of working hard, of doing well and sacrifice.

But whenever I attempted to write anything, a poem or short story it presented itself as longing. As a teenager, I was motivated by desperation and anger often scribbling cryptic messages inside the petals of the ivy and rose pattern of my bedroom wallpaper, praying not to be found out─ yet, really feeling just the opposite.

I was the only daughter in a small split-level house with two feisty younger brothers, a traveling salesman Dad, and a gin-playing, party girl, Mom. In the sloping attic tower that became my room, I felt invisible. Reading kept me company, and taught me about the diversity of people’s lives. This helped widen the borders of the narrow world I inhabited and freed my imagination.