My Mother's Closet

It might be light outside, or dark.  I don’t know.  I’ve fallen asleep in my mother’s closet again, the smell of camphor offsetting the mustiness that must have been there, in the old duplex on Cordova Avenue. I am safe in my secret space.  

The closet is deep, so deep that when I crawl to the shelves in back, behind the double hung wooden rods, I cannot hear movement in the house.  Even the whirring of Mama’s sewing machine sounds as distant as an airplane, though it is only on the other side of her bedroom, in its special cabinet covered with scraps of the fabrics she keeps in her closet. 

Mama lets me sit next to her as she sews dresses for herself and for me.  Sometimes they match, and with the scraps I can make something matching for my Barbie too.  I wind the pretty prints around my doll and sew them together with awkward fingers, the bloody little spots from needle pricks adding to the gay pattern of my couture.   “Tsk,” Mama says, seeing me suck on my wounded fingers.  She pulls open a hidden door on the sewing machine cabinet, and I can see treasures--spools of threads in different colors, shiny buttons liberated from old clothes, and the silver thimbles that will protect me. 

Now, sewing seems too much of an effort, and deep in the closet I adjust Mama’s favorite sweater, the one that I like to use as a pillow. Idly, I open her shoe boxes, examining the pretty kitten heels and sandals that she never ever wore.  “I’m saving it for when I need something nice.” She tells me in her thick Hungarian accent.  The unworn spoils of our bargain basement shopping trips are all around me, lit up with the faint glow of the single bare bulb on the closet ceiling; its brass pull chain casts dancing shadows on the white walls as I rifle through her dresses.  They fill the space with assurances that she will have enough, and promises of the good times she hopes will come.  Mama has a hard life, but she stuffs her closet with optimism.

Our shopping grounds.

Mamma is a legendary baker and cook, but does not want to be known for it.  We have a surprise party for her but she doesn't like the center pieces, brightly colored oven mitts grasping big bunches of flowers.  "It's just the time I was born, that's why I cook"  she says, and I wonder who she would be if she had more choices in her life.

Bringing a little bit of Bubbe to our parties.

Mamma does love flowers but does not like to see them die. “If you buy me flowers again, I will throw them off the balcony” she announces each time we bring a bouquet, then lovingly trims and arranges the blossoms in her very best amethyst glass vase, a 25 cent treasure from one of her endless garage sale hunts. Her house is a jungle of knick-knacks.  Twice a year  I wash them all in the kitchen sink, a towel lining the bottom so that the Depression Glass and Occupied Japan teacups will be safe from chipping. Oh, how I hate those knick-knacks, the porcelain Hummels smiling up at me, taunting me; the carnival glass threatening to leap out of my soapy fingers. 

At least it's not the middle finger.

Mamma has secrets.  One day she reveals to me that her grandmother married the wrong man by mistake.  “She had to” explains my Mamma.  “That’s who was there when she got to the Chuppah.” It makes perfect sense to her.  But her own mother’s match, she reveals in a low voice, was a love match.  Then she looks away.  Who is she thinking of, my Mamma?

"Er, do I know you?"

Mamma is always ready with good advice.  "Don't sell the cow!" she tells us girls, "or it's milk under the bridges!" We laugh and we tease her ceaselessly.  She is a good sport, but thinks we are stupid.

Pishen and shlofen she says to my little girl self, pulling the blankets up around my neck.  Shlofen and pishen I would reply mischievously, knowing it will make her laugh her big belly laugh, almost masculine in its heartiness.  Mama doesn’t smile too much.  Bad teeth from the war she explains, even after her teeth are fixed. It is a rare treat, and a worthy goal to make her smile and laugh, tears sometimes spilling over her sweet cheeks with her glee. My tears spill over with the remembering, and I am grateful for all of the secret spaces in my life where she still lives.

Olga Stern

May 15, 1928-May 15, 2000

The last plane to Cabo

Paul took a trip this week, to Cabo San Lucas, where he is selling the house that we have owned for more than 15 years.  One might ask why we would take family vacations in a town that is known for roving drunks, prostitutes and errant spring breakers frolicking on the beach under the watchful eyes of police with machine guns. Well, no place is perfect.

Perfect? No.  Perfect moments? Yes.

I’ll tell you a little known secret about Cabo (besides the fact that they have cockroaches and scorpions you can saddle.)  When all the drunken fishermen stumble home at closing time, and all of the coed vomit is hosed off the sidewalk, families emerge to eat at some of the most kid friendly restaurants and play on some of the most beautiful beaches on earth.

Like most beach resorts, Cabo has a variety of playthings for tourists.  ATVs, parasailing, scuba diving and snorkeling, jet skis, glass bottom boats and fishing charters are everywhere, as are the incessant beach vendors hawking “silver” jewelry and Cabo (via China) souvenirs.  But there was much more.

Cabo is, I’m told, one of the greatest fishing spots in the world.  I’m not a fish person, but even I enjoyed watching the boats fan out jauntily out across the Pacific every morning and come home with their flags flying, signaling their success each evening.  Our girls loved to cast lines out into the surf from the deserted beach that graced our community.  We caught some pretty odd specimens that way-- from the scary fish with buck teeth and the evil eye that the kids named “Butch” before throwing back--to the pretty tuna that Grandma then beat to death and cut into sushi while I cringed and crept to my room. Sometimes Paul would go out with friends to fish, and they would take their catch from the boat directly to the sushi bar, where it would be prepared in a myriad of ways that seemed to bring them to the verge of, well, let’s say nirvana.

We found lots of ways to play in Cabo, on many trips that ranged from a few days to more than a month.  Sure, we visited the main beach restaurants and dug our toes in the sand while watching our kids play in the surf a few feet away.  But we also ate at back street restaurants, shopped at local stores and bought the kids fresh mangos on a stick from street vendors.  My favorite outing was always to the open-air restaurant a little way out of town. Paul and I could relax while the kids risked tetanus on the rusty swing set and tried to woo the many mangy looking cats who lived there.

Things didn’t always go well in Cabo.  There was the time that the Defender got a flat in the desert between La Paz and Cabo.  But we got to meet a Federal, who helped us change the tire and offered us water.  There was the time that Lia was bitten by a jellyfish in the warm water off the lonely East Cape and it took us 20 minutes to find help, with Paul driving like a maniac over washboard dirt tracks, honking at errant goats and cows in the road.  But we got to spend the afternoon at a remote fisherman’s retreat, the beautiful stone patio empty except for the lovely ladies who cared for my daughter’s swollen leg and stopped her crying with some sweets.

We loved having friends and family come down to stay with us, and we enjoyed the neighbors we grew to know. I will enjoy the memories of  them...cooking together, having beers on the terrace, and watching as they crowded into the convertible VW bugs that were for many years the primary rental car in Cabo.  Some friends got into a bit of trouble—L was robbed by a prostitute, B got drunk and decided on the wrong tattoo and P drank the water at the wrong restaurant. But mostly people had a nice time, and we had nice visits.

The Baja has changed.  Twenty years ago there was one stop light between the airport and town (though livestock had the right of way.)  The town was gritty, the food was simple and the homes were a bargain. We watched as the corridor between  San Jose del Cabo and Cabo San Lucas was developed by hotel chains, huge tracts of vacation housing were constructed on the beautiful East Cape and cruise ships pushed for easier access, campaigning to dredge the delicate ecosystem of the cape waters. When a Costco opened outside of town, followed by a Home Depot we knew that the little village was as much a memory as our children’s toddler years. 

Paul called.  He said that he still hears the children’s feet on the marble steps, and their splashing in the pool.  But just as Cabo has grown up, so have our kids.  And just like Cabo, it’s time to change.

Did you close the gate?

Thank you Paul, for making these memories, and so many more.

25 Years With Paul

I have been married a long time.

First contact.  (Actual historical document.)

When Paul and I got married we were both working hard in related industries.  In fact, we slotted our wedding between job fairs, publishing deadlines and upcoming presentations.  List upon list of "to-do" items were checked off, etiquette books read and discarded, and friends called upon for help over and above that which we deserved.  But, in spite of all of our efforts, when we finally made it to the wedding we realized that we had entirely forgotten to obtain a marriage license.  The Rabbi was quite nice.  “Well, I’ll marry you in the eyes of G-d, and you guys can work it out with the State of California later.”  Now we have two anniversary dates.  The first marks the lovely little wedding we held at the location of our first dinner date. The second marks a giggling agreement made in a Los Angeles courthouse, in front of a stranger with a gold tooth and a lisp.

I now pronounce you man and wife, sort of.

It’s funny to get married twice in two weeks.  It was a second chance, I guess, to say “Great party, fun trip to Maui, but let’s not get carried away here.”  Instead we took a chance and said yes again, to an uncertain future with a person we knew just a little bit. 

25 years later

Now I know that I was lucky to happen upon this hard working, honest man. Over the years I’ve learned about his willingness to help people, to take the high road when everyone else was on the low road and to prioritize his children’s needs ahead of his own.  I’ve also learned that he shoots a mean dart gun, that he can fix tractors (most of the time) and that he’s a sucker for dogs. Sure, he might play his guitar too loud when I am trying to work, or drive too fast or stubbornly insist on a brown couch but these things are forgiven as I hope he forgives my skeptical nature, my terrible golf game and my revulsion for seafood.

When we had our tenth anniversary Paul and I picked out new rings. I asked him if he thought we should renew our vows.  He asked me why I would want to --his were still working just fine. “Let’s check in again at 50 years,” he suggested.

Sometime around our 15^th anniversary Paul planted 15 lilac trees on our property.  “They won’t bloom for years!” I lamented.  “We have time,” he promised.  Like most of our plans for life, not every tree made it, but the ones that did now fill each spring with a lush purple reminder of all the promises Paul has made to me that he has kept.

“You should have married somebody more pliable.” I mused aloud on our 20th.  “Someone who likes scuba diving, doesn’t get dizzy on a step stool and celebrates Christmas with good cheer.”  His answer both heartened me and foretold of more years of struggle in my future:  “Where would the fun be in that?” 

This year I asked Paul what we should do to celebrate our 25^th anniversary.  “Let’s start something new.”  He said.  “Something we can do when we’re old together.”  Sounds good.

Burrowes family portrait.

Push. Don't Pull.

Rereading that last blog I wondered why, if brainwashing is so achievable through repetition, I have been such an utter failure at brainwashing my kids over the years.

Lord knows we tried.
Photo: Informed-hypnosis.com

This morning I took my younger daughter and her friend to a wrestling tournament (yes, wrestling) and as her friend hopped into the car (at 6:30 am) she said “Sorry to keep you waiting.  My Mom was giving me Parent Lecture Number 37. “  For those of you unfamiliar with the numbering system Parent Lecture Number 37 has to do with the buddy system and safety. 

"Now, before you go out there are a couple things I want to go over..."
Photo:  Heroesite.com

In case you are curious, Parent Lectures Numbers 1-36 are progressively more complicated but less explicit instructions for life.  For example, Parent Lecture Number 1 is very specific: “Don’t put that into your mouth” (this lecture is repeated in teenage years as Parent Lecture Number 1-B, and carries an R rating.) Number Six is “Brush your teeth in a circular motion.”  By the time Parent Lecture Number 12 rolls around directions are becoming more general:  “Personal Hygiene is very important.” 

"Go ahead.  I'm listening."
Photo: boreme.com

My girls tend to finish my sentences when I give them unsolicited advice... and that is supposed to prove that they understand.  I learned long ago that it really just means that they have a good memory.  I have often assured my husband that one day our teenagers will wake up and all the years of parent lectures will be finally be fully integrated, and maybe even operational. They will be young adults. Our brainwashing child-rearing work will be done. The kids will launch lives of their own. Or will they?

What we envision.

What we get?
Photo: blogs.discovery.com

Just when you think you can see the end of the parenting tunnel, the route shifts. This month, Scientific American Mind (January 2013) ran an article about a new developmental stage for our young people called “Emerging Adulthood.”  It discusses the growing use of the term “Emerging Adult” for ages 20 and up, and how this new label could encourage our kids to take on responsibility more slowly. According to this model, some of our children may not realize full adulthood until age 35.  A Pew Research Center study supports the delayed adulthood paradigm: fewer young people are moving out of state and getting driver’s licenses, and more adult children are living with parents and marrying later.  The question is, what happened?  Did we socially construct this developmental stage through our media portrayals (e.g., Failure to Launch) and our willingness to accept what Scientific American Mind calls “short-term social trends” as the new norm?  Have we permanently lowered our expectations? Once you label something like “Emerging Adult” does it make it so? Is that yet another subtle, negative form of the brainwashing of our kids?

Reaching age 35 does not guarantee adulthood...
Photo: newsone.com

Instead of encouraging our kids to be independent (Parent Lecture Number 32) labels like “Emerging Adult” encourage our kids to hunker down in childhood until they are wrinkled versions of their adolescent selves.  It doesn’t have to be that way.  The same Pew Study tells us that most people in their twenties are working, many do not mooch off their parents and most have social stability and healthy relationships.  So, do we need to (negatively?) label an entire generation, and beyond?  Is this really about their lack of readiness? Or is it more about our need to pull them in close in a scary world, rather than pushing them to go and find their best selves?

Mom, this is not what I meant by "seeing the world"
Photo: oakland.k12.mi.us

If we are to expect more from our kids, and if they are to achieve more, then it seems that the thing keeping them from emerging might very well be us.  Maybe a different label would help us think about our kids more positively, and help them form healthy self-images.  Instead of the dubious “Emerging Adult” stage, how about  “Mom gets her Home Office” years, the “Able to Hold My Liquor “ age, the “Still Good Looking and Relatively Smart” developmental window or the “My Frontal Lobe is Finally Fully Formed” stage?

Maybe merit badges would help.
Photo: trendhunter.com

Yesterday we went out with our older daughter.  Out of caring habit my husband told her to buckle her seat belt (Parent lecture Number 8.)  “I’m twenty,” she stated flatly.  Oh yah.

You've been added.

I started writing about the predominance of dead parents in movies (understandably I take exception to this) and in the course of my research I stumbled upon this ad:

Suddenly, being dead seemed to be the least of my worries.  This ad sells video games.  Here is another ad that makes games attractive to kids by demonstrating how horrified mothers are when viewing game clips:

As a sponge cake lover and a mother I admit to feeling a range of emotions, but then I realized that these ads are an outgrowth of commercial indoctrination that has been going on for years. 

Our commercials have morphed into ads for anti-authoritarianism, if not a beginner’s guide to criminality.  In a single morning of cartoons your children might see rabbits and leprechauns neatly tricked out of their own food, candy ads promising that their product will buy you enough time to come up with a viable lie, teens happily bursting out of a factory with stolen goods under the protest of security guards and a prison uniform clad burglar who is addicted to thieving fast food hamburgers. Lots of writing has been done lamenting the effects of this advertising on our children’s health habits, but little has been written about the underlying morality message and its effect on our changing social norms.

Photo: Ideaspasm.com

We parents survived (with various scars) the creepiness of the Burger King guy showing up uninvited in our bedrooms, giant pitchers of Kool-Aid smashing through our walls and freaky decapitated doll heads. What makes today’s ads different? Sheer numbers. In the1960s, kid’s programming consisted of 27 hours a week, mostly concentrated on Saturday mornings. By 2009 Common Sense reports that  90% of our kids are “frequently” parked in front of the television selecting programming from 14 children’s networks that are on 24 hours per day. Average screen time for adolescents age 8-18 has grown to 7.5 hours per day...11 hours per day if you count the multiple screens they are viewing simultaneously. And according to Pediatrics (December 2006) young kids are unable to distinguish between truth and the hyperbole of advertising. Dale Kunkel, PhD, at the University of California, Santa Barbara cautions "To young children, advertising is just as credible as Dan Rather reading the evening news is to an adult." The more kids watch the more firmly they believe.

The remote too?  Now you've gone too far.
Photo:Telegraph.co.uk

Kids are just starting everything earlier these days.
Photo: Unliberaledwoman.com

Repetition is a primary tool in brainwash.  Neuroscientist Kathleen Taylor explains that repetition is an integral part of brainwashing techniques because “connections between neurons become stronger when exposed to incoming signals with higher frequency and intensity.” Advertisers have known this for a long time, seeding media buys in viewing blocks—hoping to achieve the 9 exposures necessary to grow new consumers.

Yup, looks like nine.
Photo: david.dicke.com

Once ideas take root in young individuals they are likely thrive. Taylor argues that people in their teenage years and early twenties are more susceptible to persuasion. Her research demonstrated that individuals who have undergone indoctrination have more “rigid pathways” in the parts of their brain dedicated to reasoning, and that means brainwashed individuals will be “less likely to rethink situations or be able to later reorganize these pathways.” The bottom line here is that your child may be permanently if subtly shaped by observing a commercial that encourages lying as a problem-solving technique or stealing as a form of fun. Or worse.

Photo: Loves.cosmetics.com

Even if your child escapes pathological lying as a coping technique there are other effects of massive amounts of screen time and unsupervised viewing. For example, RAND research confirms that teens are twice as likely to have sex if they see it portrayed on television, and children as early as 4 years old actually aspire to be bullies after seeing it modeled on television. Oh, but there’s more! Frequent TV viewers have smaller vocabularies, have a higher chance of obesity and are more materialistic (Palo Alto Medical Foundation) Finally, these shows effect parents.  More and more, parents are lowering their expectations of kids, accepting the portrayal of sneaky, rebellious, drug addled idiots as a norm (Stern, 2005.)

“Television viewing is a highly complex, cognitive activity, during which children are actively involved in learning” (Anderson & Collins, 1988) What they are learning can only be mitigated by educating them, early, about the nature of television, making them more savvy about the goals of advertisers.  Above all don’t accept the role that advertisers have assigned us as parents.  We don’t have to be dead, or dunderheads, or evil or accept abuse in their quest for profit. 

                                                     

                                                                   Just for fun: