Weather or Not

I’ve had more conversations about the weather this year than I’ve had in all of my previous years combined. It’s always safe to talk about the weather of course, and here in Alabama it’s a universal pastime whenever small talk is called for, but this year it’s actually interesting.

For starters, it snowed four times this winter. I’ve lived here for 33 years, and I can count the good snowfalls on one hand. So, four snows in one winter is news in Alabama. The snowfalls started on Christmas Day and progressed with bigger and better snows twice in January. Then, in early February, snow was in the forecast again and yet on the appointed day, the morning was sunny and bright. We’re always skeptical about snow in the forecast here in Alabama. We’ve believed the hype and suffered disappointment too many times. But, our intrepid weather men had gotten it right three times this season already, so I was inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt.

I was out in the car running errands around 10:00, and I watched in amazement as an advancing overhead blanket of grey moved up from the south. By the time I got home at lunchtime, grey covered the sky and it started to feel like snow. Then, as the day went on, it turned sunny again, then grey, then sunny. I worried that it was just a tease. But dark moist clouds kept moving up from the Gulf in relentless waves. The ground was already deep-chilled; it had been cold for weeks. The waves of grey kept coming and as the sun started going down, it got even colder. When the big grey blanket settled overhead and released its moisture, the frigid air zapped the big warm droplets just like magic.

At 6:00, while I was walking from a parking lot to a special family gathering at a restaurant, it began to snow fat, fluffy snowflakes. At dinner, we faced a big picture window and watched the swirling snow coat the trees with frosting as night fell. The pristine hush of new snow made the evening even more special. By the time I drove back to Shelby County, there were blizzard conditions for several stretches along the way. This was my idea of a snowstorm. Well done, Alabama. Snow, for the fourth time in one winter! It was definitely something to talk about.

Then all of a sudden, it was spring for a day. Then it was spring for another day and another. February hadn’t even thought about ending yet, and the air started to warm and sweeten.

Now the talk really started in earnest, and I confess, I instigated a lot of it. “What do you think about this weather we’ve been having?” The barista at Starbucks shook her head and said, “It’s totally random.” The grocery bagger at Publix said, “Alabama, the bi-polar state.”

“Do you think we’ll have another freeze?” I queried. My neighbor who works outside and is an observer of weather said, “No. We’re done.” He went through some fancy verbal calculations referencing winters I had no recollection of, and he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. The check-out woman in the garden center at Wal-Mart said, “We’ll have a hard freeze before Easter.” She’s an old-timer here in Shelby County and she’s seen lots of Alabama weather, so she sounded like she knew what she was talking about too.

Today, just two weeks into March, the pear trees are in full bloom and the redbuds are out. The tulip trees are more fragrant than I ever remember them being. Daffodils, forsythia and camellias are all blooming as early and fresh and abundant as you please.

But it isn’t Easter yet. The jury is still out on another freeze. I remember an outrageous snowstorm one April. It could happen, people. And yet, I’m hopeful that this gift of an early spring will continue. Springtime is akin to a natural resource here in Alabama. We can’t market it, but we can surely celebrate it, and it’s one thing we all agree upon.

You Are Beautiful - The Rest of the Story

It started in October with a message painted on the Highland Avenue overpass on the Red Mountain Expressway in Birmingham. "You Are Beautiful," it said. Was it a joke? The prelude to a marriage proposal? An advertising ploy? An honest opinion?

It caused a stir in town and became fodder for stories in the Birmingham News and on the local TV networks. It captured the fancy of commentators and politicians alike who reached for profound implications and encouraged us to recognize, embrace and celebrate our beauty as a city. As we tried it on for size, somehow the appellation took on a gravitas that was both cosmic and comic.

When the painted compliment began appearing in other locations around town, columnist John Archibald suggested that the city launch a public art project to keep the message alive. "Just sanctioned signs, in sanctioned spots, by sanctioned artists. With one message: You Are Beautiful. Then Birmingham might again start to see itself in that light. It would, after all, be hard to find a city more self conscious than Birmingham," he wrote.

Then on Christmas Eve, a graffiti artist struck again, changing "Beautiful" on the Highland Avenue overpass to a word described by the Birmingham News as "a contraction for profanity." A photo of the defaced signed showed a word beginning in a bright orange F whose remaining letters had already been painted over by city workers. We all blanched and drew in a horrified breath at the F word we assumed had been painted on our beloved overpass. Suddenly, we weren't so beautiful any more. Birmingham Mayor William Bell reassured us. "Birmingham is a beautiful place with beautiful people, and it's the spirit of the message that counts."

My son, who lives in Birmingham and knows first hand what's happening in town, told me, when I asked him what he knew about the story, that the profane word painted on the overpass was Fugly. You Are Fugly. That drew guffaws. I had never heard the word before, and I understand its components, but you have to admit, it's a funny word. I have to smile every time I think of "You Are Fugly" as a perverse twist in this saga of civic identity, and I wonder why the Birmingham News deemed it unfit to print. The F word which was darkly hinted at and imagined was surely worse than the reality of fugly. At least we all could have had a good laugh.

Well, apparently all this was only the beginning.

Next, two local artists who may or may not be the original graffiti artists in this tale, were given permission by the owner of Monarch Cleaners in Homewood to paint "You Are Beautiful" on the side of his building. They got as far as "You Ar" when they were ordered to cease and desist by the City of Homewood, telling them they needed a permit to paint a sign. The artists contended that the piece was artistic expression, not a sign, and should be exempt from the permit requirement. So the Homewood City Council scheduled a hearing to determine whether the painting is signage or art. The hearing is this week, on February 15.

What do you think? I think it skirts the signage category because it doesn't say "Monarch Cleaners" or anything about dry-cleaning, but we'll see what the city of Homewood thinks. Sure, it isn't fine art, but a "You Are Beautiful" mural could serve as a visual reminder of an amusing story about our city that we could all enjoy and laugh about together. After all, a community with a sense of humor -- particularly about itself -- has a good shot at coming together, moving forward, and growing, with God's blessing.

Today's Birmingham News reports that "Beautiful" has suddenly reappeared on the Highland Avenue overpass. So, the rest of the story remains to be seen, but we're all in this together -- the good, the bad, and the fugly.

All Systems Go

I’ve been doing a lot of recalibrating lately – i.e., adjusting my settings in response to changes in the variables of my life. For the most part, I live alone. Then over the holidays, in the space of ten days, I went from living alone to living with my entire immediate family, to living with just my husband, to living alone again, to living with my husband in DENVER. Whew. Plus, husband and family require a great deal of care and feeding, while I, by comparison, require very little on my own. Living en famille swallows up my space, my time, my priorities, my thoughts, my attention and my leisure, and believe me -- it requires some recalibration after living alone. I love every minute of it because I want all the face time I can get with my family, but it’s always a challenge.

Relational Recalibration, I call it. It’s maintaining your equilibrium -- your emotional balance point – in every situation so you don’t stumble when your comfort zone is breached. Really, it’s yielding to change. It’s redefining and expanding your comfort zone when other people’s needs bump up against it. It’s not easy for me to do (is it easy for anyone?) but when I manage to achieve it through the buoyancy of God’s grace, I walk in peace for a time. The bigger your comfort zone, the more fun you can have.

Moving from Alabama to Denver requires recalibration, too. Even in the throes of a harsh winter, the South retains a soft and misty gentleness in stark contrast to the piercing bright chill of the Mile High City. So, to recalibrate for the Colorado climate in January, I drink lots of water, pile on the moisturizer, layer, layer, layer, and wear my mother’s mink coat, bless her. Climatic recalibration is a lot simpler than relational recalibration, but equally necessary when you move from climate to climate.

I thought about recalibration once again when my husband had an impromptu flying lesson last weekend following a thrilling flight around Pike’s Peak and over the Royal Gorge in the sleek and sporty Piper Arrow owned by our friend Jim. Jim and his nephew Jason took us up on a rare, perfect winter morning with textbook flying conditions: clear and calm, unseasonably mild, blue skies over the Rockies. Our tour of the mountains was spectacular, and when we landed, Jim asked my husband if he’d like to fly the plane. Of course.

My husband climbed into the pilot’s seat and Jim gave him a quick tutorial on how to operate the foot and hand controls and how to read the gauges. Jim did the take-off and then handed it off to my husband saying, “Your airplane.” In the air, Jim instructed him on “attitude flying” – keeping the dashboard of the plane in line with the horizon. Buffeted by air currents, the pitch of the plane changes; that is, the nose drifts up and down. To stay on altitude, the pilot orients the dashboard so that it lines up with the horizon, and keeps it level as the plane moves forward. There’s a lot more to flying than that, of course, but the concept of maintaining an “attitude” captured my attention. As I listened to Jim’s instructions, I realized that flying a plane requires a hair-trigger sensitivity to change and the ability to make immediate, miniscule adjustments to stay on course, not unlike relational recalibration.

As we flew high over the Colorado landscape, I could tell that my husband was in his element. He’s a natural at handling crafts of any type and size. When he was in the Navy, he steered a huge supply ship, and he once steered our car along the ridge of a median to a safe stop when we went into a harrowing skid on a wet highway. I always feel safe when he’s behind the wheel. I was enjoying the view from 10,000 feet and the fact that my husband was at the helm.

And then a cable broke.

Suddenly, my husband was having trouble maintaining the pitch of the little Piper. “Holy smoke,” Jim barked as he ran his hand between the seats, confirming that a trim cable had indeed snapped, “We’re going back. My airplane.” Jim immediately took control, squared his shoulders, and used his skill and strength to keep the nose of the plane on course. With no way of knowing just how serious the trouble was, all I could do was pray. We were high, high above the ground below. The mood in the plane was calm, but tense. Jim kept the control tower apprised of our position. “Five miles out…two miles out…landing now.” We landed safely after those few long minutes of uncertainty and danger, and we all teased my husband about “breaking the plane.”

Now that my husband has caught the flying bug, I expect that Jim will take him up for another lesson soon. I’m sure I’ll hear more about “attitude flying” and that I’ll continue to extrapolate it to “attitude living” – another name, I think, for “relational recalibration.” It’s all about attitude: keeping your dashboard aligned just so, while things change around you.

It’s like following a guy’s lead when you’re dancing. If you’re really following – ready to shift, pivot, bend – you don’t lose your balance or step on toes. And if you really follow the One who can help you navigate your way through the changes, intrusions, disappointments, and frustrations inherent in living with other people, you’ll move more gracefully in the dance.

Y-M-C-A

“Village People” connotations notwithstanding, I love the YMCA. It’s the best health club I’ve ever found.

My YMCA, the Shelby County Family Branch in Pelham, Alabama, is housed in the most architecturally-interesting modern building I’ve seen in this county. It has a good-sized, well-configured weight room, a bright, spacious exercise room, a spinning room, a stationary cycling/treadmill room, a tiled steam room, a wood sauna, an indoor pool and an outdoor pool!

There are day and evening adult classes in Spinning and Water Aerobics (high and low intensity), along with high-energy Aerobics classes with names like Bodypump, Bodyjam, Bodystep and Bodyflow, plus Pilates and Yoga! The locker rooms are clean and well-appointed. The staff is friendly and professional, and the clientele are a cordial and like-minded community of people who like to exercise.

My husband and I pay $56 a month to be members. This, my friends, is a deal.

I swim at the Y a few times a week. I started when I was engaged in the battle to lose 30 pounds -- a battle I won, thanks in part to the swimming. I’m not a great swimmer, but I love to swim. In the winter months when the frigid air discourages me from walking, I swim laps for exercise.

I start my regimen in the steam room where the moist heat soaks into my creaky joints and hydrates my skin and my breathing passages. Then I return to the locker room and do my stretches at the barre in front of the full-wall mirror. Based on the yoga I learned back in the day, my stretching routine is as important to me as the cardio and muscle workout I get from swimming or walking. Stretching makes me more flexible and improves my posture. I like to think it makes me more graceful – it certainly makes me more relaxed.

After the stretch, I swim my laps, interspersed with a couple of sets of a Deb-designed water exercise that tones my residual ab-flab. Last, I sit in the sauna and soak up the heat. The whole routine takes about an hour, and I always leave feeling great.

Depending on the timing, sometimes I share the pool with the kids on the YMCA swim teams. They inspire me – they’re fast and they’re strong. It pleases me to see young people committed to the discipline of a strenuous exercise program, and I commend the parents who facilitate this.

If you’re thinking you could stand to lose a few pounds – or a lot of pounds -- may I recommend the YMCA? If you’ve been thinking it for some time, saying it to friends and family, making excuses to yourself and everyone else, and feeling lousy because you can’t catch your breath, move without a twinge, or zip up your jeans – then may I say, “Quit whining and do what you know is good for you.”

Exercise, sensible eating habits, and perseverance are all it takes.

Follow these two simple steps:

1) Start.

2) Don’t stop.

You’ll feel and look better, I promise. Give it 3 weeks and you can call me to complain if you don’t see a difference.

Whatever your exercise of choice, you’ll find what you need at the YMCA. It’s affordable and there are branches everywhere. See you at the Y!

Something New Under the Sun

To celebrate November 23, 2010, the first birthday of my granddaughter Myra Laine, I'm posting an essay I wrote shortly after she was born. All I can add is aptly summed up in this lyric by Marshall Barer from the Broadway show "Once Upon a Mattress."

Yesterday I loved you as never before,
But please don't think me strange;
I've undergone a change,
And today I love you even more...

OK, it's happened to me. I've heard about it, read about it, seen the effects on others, and even wondered what all the fuss was about. Now I know. It's happened to me: I've beheld my first grandchild for the first time.

Myra Laine Layman. Myra Laine, as dainty and perfect as a baby girl can be. Tiny - only five pounds -- with ballerina legs and pianist fingers and a mouth like a rosebud. And I'm smitten.

Her grandfather calls her Zuzu (go figure) and it suits her. Now Zuzu populates my thoughts as I cook ("Zuzu will like this casserole because Zuzu is going to be a girl who loves vegetables"), shop ("Wouldn't that little dress look cute on Zuzu?"), clean out closets ("Zuzu can dress up in this hat"), read the paper ("I have to save this cartoon for Zuzu"), walk the dog ("I'll take Zuzu here and show her this dogwood tree"), and on and on. I'll tell her stories, make up songs for her, dress her up in scarves and pearls, teach her how to bake Challah and custard pie, and read and read and read to her. I'll teach her big words and funny rhymes and how to tap dance and crochet and harmonize.

I remember when my mother saw Myra Laine's daddy for the first time. Just one week old. She flew down from New York to Richmond and my husband picked her up at the airport. She rushed into the house with a hug and a kiss for me, then tiptoed into the bedroom where the baby lay sleeping in his bassinet. She approached him. When she beheld him, I heard an intake of breath, and then she uttered a sound I had never heard before: it was both a sigh and an exclamation of the deepest awe and satisfaction, as if she had lived every day of her life just to see that face and to make that newly-minted sound. The sound of a first-time grandmother. I heard myself make that sound when I beheld Myra Laine.

My husband's respected friend and mentor used to tell him, "There's nothing new under the sun." My husband recalled this the other night as we were talking about our Zuzu. "He was wrong," my husband realized, "Every time a baby is born, there is something new under the sun." A new life to be lived, a new little creature that has never been before, a new being infused with God's special purposes and designs and treasures. For our pleasure, for His glory -- something new under the sun.

Curtis Files - The Last Song

Curtis Files was in the audience at Dream Mecca Studio at the Daniel Day Gallery on Friday night. I was there to hear 2Blu & The Lucky Stiffs, and they were making some beautiful music for the full house at the stylish, offbeat venue on 6th Avenue South in Birmingham.

Curtis, an old-time blues singer -- 81 years old, I'm told -- was introduced as the upcoming act for next Friday night. Later, when the band invited guests to sit in, Curtis took the floor. "I'm ready," he said, "At least I've got to hope I'm ready."

The band laid down a rhythm, but Curtis said, "I'm not feeling it." He turned to the band, raised his hand, and they became his. "Give me a twelve-bar blues in A." The drummer laid it down and the bass and guitar started the slow, familiar progression that settles deeper in your soul every time it comes around. "Put some B.B. King in it," Curtis directed, and the guitarist did. We were all feeling it.

Curtis started to sing:

"I have had my fun if I never get well no more.
I have had my fun if I never get well no more.
All of my health is failing;
Lord, I'm going down slow,
I'm going down slow."

His voice was a little tight -- he hadn't had time to warm up -- but it was strong and melodic. He sang another verse:

"Please write my mother and tell her the shape I'm in.
Please write my mother and tell her the shape I'm in.
Tell her to pray for me,
Forgive me for my sin,
For all of my sin."

Curtis turned and handed it off to George Dudley, the guitarist, who took it up a notch. It was good. Curtis was leading and the room followed. His groove was immediate and visceral, and we all went there with him. He was in it with all his heart. Then his heart gave out.

We watched as he bent forward from the waist, then continued forward and down, grasping the speaker as he reached the floor. He rolled onto his back. He was still.

The audience sat aghast for a frozen moment.

911 was called. A pillow was placed under his head. A small group gathered around him, holding his hands and speaking to him. People prayed. A man and a young woman stepped up and performed CPR. We heard a ragged breath. Hope filled the room.

The paramedics arrived and did their job. Their poker faces didn't tell us anything. They took Curtis to the hospital.

Stunned and subdued, we talked quietly for some time. Then the band took the stage again and began to play. The music was good. It was passionate and powerful. Bruce Andrews' harmonica told the story. The room was a single-minded congregation.

The phone call came: Curtis didn't make it.

The music stopped. A woman sobbed. People gathered in twos and threes to comfort one another. We drifted out into the night, burdened and, somehow, blessed by what we had witnessed.

Presentation at "Darkness into Life" Opening Reception

Here is the text of my presentation at the opening reception for the Darkness into Life Holocaust education exhibit at Parnell Memorial Library in Montevallo, Alabama on Nov. 7, 2010:

I grew up Jewish in New York City, and my own back ground is Ashkenazic -- Eastern European. My grandparents grew up in shtetls -- little villages -- in Poland. They came to this country in the early 1900's, so they were safe during the Holocaust. My family never spoke of the ones who stayed behind and I don't know their stories. I wish I did.

The culture I was raised in was the culture of the Eastern European Jews. It's a passionate culture that traveled with us to Ellis Island and to cities around the globe, and it took root wherever we were planted. I'd like to share a little bit of that culture with you today.

My grandparents spoke Yiddish, a richly idiomatic language with elements of both German and Hebrew. Yiddish words like chutzpah, glitch, shmooze and oy vay have worked their way into the American vernacular, so most of us speak a little Yiddish without even realizing it. I never really learned the language as a child, except for what I picked up around the dinner table. My parents both spoke Yiddish, but usually when they didn't want the kinderlach -- the children -- to understand what they were saying.

The music of the shtetls was Klezmer, a style that is distinctive in its upbeat wildness, yet the songs are almost always in a minor key. It's folk music that borders on jazz in its spirit, and it always makes us want to dance. You'll experience Klezmer music this afternoon, thanks to our band led by Alan Goldspiel. By the way, Alan is open to suggestions for a name for this new band. The current frontrunner is "Goldspiel and the Gefilte Fishes." You can see why he needs some input.

Gefilte Fish, by the way, is fish cakes cooked in broth and served with horseradish. It's a standard on Jewish holidays.

What can I say about Jewish food? It's made with the simplest ingredients -- a chicken, a carrot, a potato, an onion -- the foods that were available in the shtetls. Savory dishes that are slow-cooked to bring out all the goodness. Rich pastry doughs filled with fruit and nuts. Oh, the flavors! Smoked whitefish. Pickled herring. Golden braided loaves of challah on Shabbos - the Sabbath. And you haven't had brisket until you've had Jewish-style brisket.

Today we'll have some nosharei -- little snacks -- so you can get a taste of Jewish cooking. You'll sample mandelbrot -- almond bread (my mother's recipe), rugelach --- little pastry rolls with sweet fillings (a friend's recipe), and apple kuchen -- apple cake squares (my grandmother's recipe) -- all prepared for us today with a little help from my friends. And no, I'm not planning to open a Jewish bakery in Montevallo, but would it be such a bad idea?

Humor is one of the things that gets us through the hard times, and we've had some hard times. But we can still laugh, and we often laugh at ourselves. For a wonderful overview of Jewish humor and the Yiddish language, I recommend the book The Joys of Yiddish by Leo Rosten. He uses classic Jewish jokes and anecdotes to illustrate the meanings of Yiddish words. It's very entertaining!

And while you're at the library -- the wonderful stories of 19th century writer Sholom Aleichem tell the tales of life in the shtetls. One of his stories, "Tevye the Milkman," became Fiddler on the Roof. His stories about the town of Chelm -- a shtetl populated entirely by fools -- are classics of Jewish folklore. Nobel Prize winner Isaac Bashevis Singer also told the tales of the shtetls in his short stories. One of his stories, "Yentl the Yeshiva Boy," became the movie Yentl.

Learning was a priority for my family and for all the Jewish families we knew. The educational accomplishments of our children make Jewish parents and grandparents kvell -- be filled with pride, and Jewish children take on the mantle of learning with enthusiasm and dedication. We like to make our elders kvell.

In talking about Jewish culture, I've saved Jewish mothers for last because I could write a book, and someday I probably will. I am a Jewish mother and -- what can I say? Everything you've heard -- it's all true. We're so passionate about our children that it sometimes makes us -- and them -- a little neurotic. But at the heart of the Jewish mother is a woman who just wants all good things for her children, and like the writer Elizabeth Stone, feels that becoming a mother means having your heart walking around outside your body.

A friend of mine pointed out to me that it's a trait shared by all mothers. Yes, I agree, but I think we're just more vocal about it. My own sons can fill you in if you want details. Of course, they have a wonderful Gentile father who helped balance some of the mishegas - the craziness -- and I think they've turned out OK.

I know some of you had Jewish mothers. And I know some of you are Jewish mothers. You know who you are. And here in Alabama there's another category -- the honorary Jewish mother. And you know who you are.

Our Jewish mothers sang Yiddish lullabies to us, they fed us chicken soup with matzoh balls floating like clouds on golden broth, they told us to study hard and stand up straight and wear a sweater. They kvelled over us and they blessed us. I'd like to dedicate this occasion to the memory of my own mother and to the Jewish mothers who were lost in the Holocaust. Zichronam l'vracha -- May their remembrance be for a blessing.

And I hope you'll feel at home in our celebration of Jewish culture this afternoon. You're certainly welcome to partake.