Hearing

Lemonade

Evelyn Herwitz · June 4, 2019 · 2 Comments

Al is back home, from Israel, and so am I, from a lovely weekend in Florida with cousins I had never met. Last fall, my second cousin contacted me out of the blue, having found me online (this, we agreed, was both amazing and a little creepy, given how much information is out there that we don’t know about) to send me a host of family memorabilia she had saved from her parents’ home when she moved them to live near her a few years ago. That message evolved into a correspondence over the winter, and this weekend I went to meet her and her nonagenarian parents for the first time.

We had a great visit. And I’ll write about that for a future post. But what I want to write about today is my crazy travel experience, no thanks to American Airlines.

All went smoothly on Friday for the first leg of my trip, from Boston to Charlotte, N.C. But as soon as our flight landed, I received a text from American that my connecting flight had been cancelled. They automatically rebooked me . . . on a flight to northwest Florida that left close to 10:00 p.m. This would not do, as it would have been a nine hour layover. Fortunately, I was able to get on a flight that left closer to 6:00 p.m., and the time zone switch saved another hour at my cousin’s end. She was most understanding, and so now I had just five hours to kill.

Then I remembered: a friend and former colleague of mine from my days as a college marketing director lives in Charlotte. On a whim, I sent her a message. Maybe she’d be available to get together? Total long shot. But, as I was finishing lunch in the airport’s huge atrium, I received a text back. Not only was she available—she was on her way to the airport with her family, heading for a weekend family graduation get-together! What are the odds? I met her at the gate for her flight, and we spent a wonderful hour catching up. Hadn’t seen each other in 14 years.

My rebooked flight boarded about an hour later, and soon I met my cousin and was off on our family reunion adventure.

Sunday afternoon, my cousin dropped me off at the airport to return to Boston. I’d been saying auf Wiedersehen instead of goodbye, because her parents were originally from Germany, like the rest of my mother’s family—it means until we see each other again. I didn’t realize how literal that would become.

The gate for my flight back to Charlotte was jammed, not only with travelers for my 4:00 p.m. flight, but with unhappy travelers for the earlier flight to the same destination who were now delayed and on standby for my flight. But our flight didn’t board. And didn’t board. And didn’t board.

The story we were told was that the flight attendants had not yet arrived (although they were apparently staying at a nearby hotel). When I asked the gate attendant what was going on, he said, “If I told you the story, you wouldn’t believe me.” “Try me,” I said. But he wouldn’t take the bait. He did, however, help me to rebook my flight for the next day. By the time I left the airport with my cousin, who kindly put me up for another night, the flight still hadn’t taken off. According to my Flight Aware app, it eventually landed four minutes after my (also delayed) connecting flight departed.

Now, the complicating factor was that Al was returning home from Israel on Monday evening, and I was planning to pick him up at Logan. But my new schedule meant that I’d get back to Boston (if all went well) at 5:00 p.m. No time to go home and come back. Instead, however, I worked out an arrangement with the van service I had planned to take back on Sunday, to pick us both up Monday evening. Since Al was flying Air Canada, he was arriving at the same domestic air terminal as I was, from Charlotte. Fortunately, I was able to store my carry-on in one of the last overhead spaces on my flight (I was in boarding group 8) so I could stay inside the main terminal, have dinner, and just meet him at the exit point for Air Canada, as opposed to hanging around baggage claim.

Amazingly, this time, my AA flights went like clockwork, and Al’s long-haul flight to Montreal and return to Boston did, also. We both made it through large airports for our connections. I had a nice meal at Legal Seafood. And we got to ride home together without me having to drive, a good thing, because I was pretty tired.

So, that’s how I spent my weekend. Glad to be back. Glad I went. Glad it all worked out so well, in the end.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image: Francesca Hotchin

Home Alone

Evelyn Herwitz · May 28, 2019 · Leave a Comment

Al is away this week, in Israel, volunteering on an archeological dig. It’s a dream he’s had for at least a year, and he’s having the time of his life. It’s also an activity that I cannot share. We agreed that my hands are simply not capable of the sifting and digging involved. There’s a heat wave there, with temperatures over 100 degrees Fahrenheit by afternoon. The group has to get up by 4:00 in the morning to arrive at the dig site by 6:00. Work for the day finishes by noon, to avoid the worst of the brutal sun. Not my kind of schedule.

So I’m very glad that we were able to make this work for him. And fine being here on my own. But this is the longest stretch we’ve been apart—nine days—in six years, the last time involving another trip he made to Israel to visit our older daughter when she was living in Tel Aviv.

It’s an adjustment. I have good friends and neighbors that I know I can count on if I need any help. But I’m not about to call for assistance with all the little ways that Al fills in for my hands on a daily basis.

On Monday morning, for instance, the ants decided Memorial Day was the perfect time to march into my office, which is a renovated porch. The inner wall is the back of our chimney, and I noticed a tell-tale pile of fine dirt along one edge where the brick meets the carpet. A few industrious, tiny brown ants were scurrying hither and yon. There were also a few flying ants (not termites, I checked) that had chosen this very sunny day to flit about.

This is an annual spring phenomenon, so I was more annoyed than surprised. I brought up the portable vacuum from the basement, put the hose pieces together carefully so as not to bang my fingers, and sucked up the dirt (and a few ants, no doubt), then sprayed some Raid around the base of the brick wall.

The next problem, once the ants appeared vanquished (I won’t know for a few days if the swarm is over), was dealing with the fumes from the insecticide. I had a lot of writing to do, and I didn’t want to be forced out of my office by the smell (and sitting with those chemicals all day). Only problem is that the sliding door to our deck in my office is hard to open, but even harder for me to latch shut. Al always does this for me. So that option was out.

There is a bay window that has two panels you open with a crank. I never open them, because the cranks are not easy for me to manipulate. But I didn’t really have a choice. I cranked one window a few turns, only to realize that the top was stuck shut. So I cranked it closed and tried the other side. Same problem. The only other window in my office has no screen, and I couldn’t force it open, anyway.

As they say, necessity is the mother of invention. Out I went, into our side yard, armed with a tack hammer, planning to use its pronged end to leverage open the upper half of the window. I didn’t want to damage the vinyl frame, so I worked my tool carefully up the length of the stuck edge. It only took a few easy tugs, and the window opened its full length. I must admit, I was pretty proud of myself.

I spent the rest of the day writing, with plenty of fresh air and no more ant activity. The only problem with the open window on a sunny holiday was that my next-door neighbor, whom I rarely hear, was out gardening for several hours, chatting with some other folks who were helping or visiting, I couldn’t quite tell. Certainly her right, on a beautiful day, but (grumble, grumble) I would have preferred less of a distraction.

This is where working in a newsroom years ago comes in handy. I can still screen out other people’s conversations when I’m deep into my writing. And that’s basically what I did. By the time I came up for air, it was after 6:00 p.m. I made good progress. When I cranked the window, it closed easily.

I’m leaving the vacuum upstairs until I’m sure the ants are gone. I’m hoping that’s the worst of my problems this week. (Friday morning, the day before Al left, he discovered that our hot water tank in the basement was leaking, a problem that involved a seven hour plumber’s visit, a new tank, and a lot of money. Fortunately this happened while Al was still here, or I would have been a lot more upset.)

My next challenge: taking out the garbage without screwing up my hands or breaking the bag. I think I can handle it. But the recycling can wait until Al gets home.

Image: Vlad Tchompalov

On the Town

Evelyn Herwitz · May 14, 2019 · 1 Comment

I did a lot of walking last week, through and beneath the streets of Manhattan. The first half of the trip was business, the second half, pleasure—spending time with my sister to celebrate our birthdays, which are three weeks apart. And celebrate, we did.

From dinner at Ellen’s Stardust Diner, where the waitstaff are all Broadway hopefuls who belt out show tunes, to a walking tour of SOHO, Little Italy and Chinatown; from a lovely stroll up the High Line to a gourmet dinner and an outstanding performance of To Kill a Mockingbird—we had a great time. The weather was beautiful, for the most part. Our hotel off Times Square was surprisingly quiet. We discovered an excellent diner for breakfast and another for some of the best apple strudel I’ve ever tasted. And we started brainstorming our next trip together.

I’m happy to report that my new sneakers worked out pretty well. My feet certainly got tired, but not as tired as they usually do, and without significant neuropathy. Also notable: as I schlepped through the subway, to and from commuter rail, New Yorkers helped to carry my carry-on up and down steep staircases. Without my ever having to ask. Angels are everywhere.

Along the way, I enjoyed wonderful art, on the street and at the Met. Here’s a sampling for your viewing pleasure:

Art Deco with words for our times at Rockefeller Center

Artistic and delicious pastry at Ferrara in Little Italy

Street art across from the Whitney Museum entrance to the High Line

Art Deco murals and design at the Hotel Edison

The Beatle’s original instruments at the Met’s “Play It Loud” exhibit . . .

Berlin artist Alicja Kwade’s “ParaPivot” rooftop installation at the Met . . .

. . . and a spectacular view of the NYC skyline beyond Central Park

65 and 20

Evelyn Herwitz · April 23, 2019 · 2 Comments

On Thursday I turned 65. And today marks the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death. Two milestones linked by memory and blooms.

Last week, in a burst of warmth and wet, all the trees unfurled their chartreuse buds, crabapples and weeping cherries blushed, forsythias gleamed. This is often nature’s gift near my birthday, the sudden, welcome spray of pastels. Winter’s subtle grays are forgotten, and the earth smells sweet.

I spent much of my birthday cooking, with Al as sous chef, for our Passover seder Friday night. The prospect had felt daunting, and less than welcome as a way to mark my 65th, but it turned out to be a lot of fun. I was simply in a good mood. We enjoyed each other’s company, preparing each course at a relaxed pace. Midday, we broke for lunch out, and Al—always the master of surprise—wrapped up our meal with a trip to a wonderful jewelry store, with an invitation to pick out whatever I wanted. Later, when all the cooking was done and the kitchen cleaned, we went out again for a birthday dinner. Throughout the day, I received calls from family and best wishes from friends. I felt thoroughly celebrated and well prepared for the holiday, renewed.

On my 45th birthday, days before my mother’s death in 1999, we spoke on the phone. She was in good spirits because my sister and her family were visiting. A rare and aggressive form of thyroid cancer had appeared suddenly in December, when she brushed a hair from her neck and first noticed a lump. The disease took her life in four months. I had visited numerous times during that winter and early spring and was with her when she passed. In those last moments, as she sipped her final breaths, I had the distinct feeling that she was simply slipping out of her body to somewhere unknown.

In many ways, there was much I did not know about her and have only learned since her death. For a woman of her generation and German heritage, motherhood was a mix of compassion and authority. We had many long talks during my childhood and adolescence, and I learned to be a good listener from her example. But she always maintained privacy about her innermost thoughts and feelings, and revealed little of her own formative years, beyond certain familiar stories of life in Berlin during the rise of the Nazis and her transition to embracing her American citizenship. With twenty years’ perspective, I now understand that the past was simply a place she wanted to leave behind.

Since Al and I traveled to Prague and Berlin as part of our summer vacation, to honor the memory of my great grandparents who were murdered in the Holocaust, I have been thinking of her more, wondering what she really felt during that time, wishing I could ask her. Miraculously, last fall, out of the blue, I heard from a cousin I have never met, whose nonagenarian mother is still alive and able. At the end of May, I am going to visit them in Florida. And so, I may get some answers from the woman who is my mother’s first cousin and the last living link to her generation. This is a great, unexpected blessing.

When we laid my mother to rest, a white cherry sapling had recently been planted in that section of the cemetery, in ground softened by spring’s thaw. It was too young to blossom, then, but casts ample shade near her and my father’s grave today. Its size always surprises me when I visit, a marker of how much time has passed. I like to think, even as she tried to bury her past, that my mother would be pleased that I am reclaiming it, not only for myself through my travels and studying German, but also for my daughters who barely knew her as children.

How much do we ever know our parents, let alone ourselves? I will give the last word to Rainer Maria Rilke, from Requiem for a Friend (The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, trans Stephen Mitchell):

I have my dead, and I have let them go,
and was amazed to see them so contented,
so soon at home in being dead, so cheerful,
so unlike their reputations. Only you
return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock
against something; so that the sound
reveals your presence. . . .

Ich habe Tote, und ich ließ sie hin
und war erstaunt, sie so getrost zu sehn,
so rasch zuhaus im Totsein, so gerecht,
so anders als ihr Ruf. Nur du, du kehrst
zurück; du streifst mich, du gehst um, du willst
an etwas stoßen, daß es klingt von dir
und dich verrät. . . .

Image: Paul Herwitz

Mud Season

Evelyn Herwitz · April 9, 2019 · Leave a Comment

It’s getting warmer and muckier here in Massachusetts—but not yet so consistently warm that the bugs are swarming. So, perfect weather for a walk in the woods this past weekend, albeit stepping carefully around muddy tracks and vernal pools. Life’s cycle of renewal always boosts my spirits in the spring. I hope it does for you, too. Enjoy.

Hearing

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