I now fit that definition. They are going to step down the stay at home orders in Colorado on Sunday. That means they will be opening beauty parlors and tattoo parlors, with proper social distancing, of course. Not clear to me how that works. I will continue my turning grey project. I have decided not to have Martin’s name tattooed on my shoulder.
A bit sad this morning—I just learned that Loring Mandel died on March 24. He lived in Lenox, at the same independent living facility where my mother lives. Loring was an award-winning playwright and screenwriter, best known for Conspiracy, the BBC/HBO movie about the Wannsee Conference implementing the “Final Solution,” with Kenneth Branagh, Colin Firth and Stanley Tucci. You can watch the movie on Amazon Prime. Highly recommended. Loring agreed to submit a review of My City for the Michigan Quarterly Review after writing about the book in the home’s newsletter.
I heard from Ditta Lowry, briefly in the book—a former classmate of Mia’s in Vienna. She reached out to say that she recognized another childhood friend in one of the photographs.
And on the subject of old people I worry about my mother, really on her own since social isolation. She can’t do skype or zoom or facetime. She’s managing, but it’s very lonely. Also very boring. There have been outbreaks at nursing homes in the Berkshires. I hope she stays safe. When I first started writing in earnest, after I’d started the MFA program at Lesley, I found I struggled getting my mother on the page. Jane Brox, one of my mentors, commented “Your mother’s a little murky.” When I came home and told Martin this, he said, “Well your mother is a little murky.” I think she comes out pretty clearly in the book; often I write down directly how she says things and it captures who she is—her unique point of view. She’s softened over the last few years. I speak with her often. We laugh a lot. I hope she makes it to 99—coming up in May—want to hug.
My mother-in-law got herself onto the Zoom reading from My City last night. Way to go Stacy!! It was wonderful to see her and so many other friends. (some young but mostly “old” like us)
Hope we can connect at the Boston Public Library event, April 30, 2 PM EST.
I was mesmerized by Lisa Gruenberg’s Memoir “My City of Dreams”. And I felt an identification with her throughout because I knew her parents as a child growing up in Syracuse, New York. Her father and mine were academics, and fellow electrical engineers.
As a child it never even occurred to me that they might be considered unlikely friends. My father was born and raised in Iran. The likelihood he and Lisa’s father would ever meet and then go on to form a bond and socialize seems so unlikely now. That they would admire and respect each other—even more unlikely. After all, neither maternal language, upbringing, or religion would give them anything in common. Regrettably, I never eavesdropped when Lisa’s father and mine chatted. Now I regret it. What drew them to form a friendship is left now to my guess. But Harry’s personality was so kind, so thoughtful, so unique that we all gravitated to him. He adored babies and all babies and children seemed to adore him! As I read the memoir, it was so poignant, that he had lost so many people in his life, especially his little sister, but opened his arms to passing children. If anyone had a baby we all knew in whose arms the baby would be!
As a teen I asked my mother about Lisa’s parents. I should emphasize that my own parents were the odd couple, also having little in common. My mother is a first generation American coming from staunch Irish-Catholic parents. It was very uncommon in the ‘50’s in Syracuse to have such “exotic” parents. Our mothers hit it off immediately. Perhaps contending with their “different” husbands also gave them a special bond. And Lisa’s mother has the most incredible wit and sense of humor which is intact to this day. I don’t know if our Mom’s bonded or commiserated as my mother put out her cream puffs and tea!
I can remember asking my mother about Harry and what happened to him and his family in the Holocaust. She was vague—telling me “I believe his brother was the only family member who survived”. Perhaps in those days it was considered crass to “pry”, or perhaps it was my lack of empathy or just prolonged childhood obliviousness, but I never pressed for more information. Engrossed by this memoir, I realized I sat on the sofa next to Lisa’s father several times a year when I was growing up, but never understood his background. I adored her father, but never asked about his story.
This poignant glimpse of a man I knew but never knew has opened curtains. I feel privileged to have read this book. Now as a senior myself, I can absorb the pain and mourning of the different men I knew as Lisa’s father. His story of family loss, tragedy and rebirth is one of millions who went through the Holocaust. Normally we read histories that reflect the experiences of a multitude compressed into a single story. But seldom do we actually get to follow an individual, through multiple generations. Standing on the sidelines we become caught up by the daily pictures, then decades of her family while seeing a complete historical picture form.
Lisa has succeeded. We mourn with her. Well done.