My Views: Chihuly at the Denver Botanical Garden

Standing next to "The Sun Exploding" or "Medusa's Hair"

During a recent trip to Denver,  I emailed several friends a photo of me standing next to one of the extraordinary and massive glass sculpture installations created by internationally acclaimed glass artist, Dale Chihuly. His "Garden Exhibition" is currently at the Denver Botanical Gardens.  I was astounded when one friend emailed me back, "It's great, but what is it?"

I wanted to shout out across the thousands of miles separating us, "It's the sun exploding; it's Medusa's snake hair; it's an autumn chrysanthemum bursting into full bloom!  It's whatever your imagination can make of it!"  But I let it go.  I gleaned from that response, that no matter how smart people might be, being smart doesn't necessarily include an art vocabulary or a "permission slip" for using one's imagination and or humor when viewing fine art. 

Snakes in the Garden

I am not sure when the unique glass sculptural work of Chihuly crossed onto my radar screen.  To the best of my memory, it might have been an article about his astonishing new work in glass which I think, appeared in the University of Washington Alumni Magazine a long time ago, perhaps sometime in the early 1980's.  (Yes, Mr. Chihuly and I are both graduates of the University of Washington and we both spent some time in the art department there. (It appears he spent a lot more time in those studios than I did, developing a wonderfully creative mind and a unique set of artistic skills.)

A Boatload of Balls

From that initial article, I followed this fellow alumni's career and watched his reputation grow exponentially.  I recall watching television programs about his glass blowing and the team approach he uses in creating his large scale pieces.  I bought a book about him, and purchased a folio of photographs, "Chihuly Over Venice, Nuutajarvi, Finland." My local art museum, the Portland Art Museum, mounted an incredible Chihuly show some years ago, complete with examples of blown glass from Murano, Italy, where the Venetian artisan glass blowers were his inspiration. The installations at PAM were vasos, figures, and pieces that hung from the ceiling, or sprung from the floor like stalagmites growing out of the subterranean depths. Several years ago I visited his Museum/Studio in Tacoma. Although I cannot pinpoint exactly when I was "hooked" on Chihuly, it most surely began in the U of W Alumni Magazine, where it occurred to me that this fellow alum was undoubtedly going somewhere big! From early on, his work "spoke to me".

Red Spears

When my husband told me he was planning a visit to Denver this fall, I immediately signed up to accompany him, knowing there was a major Chihuly installation at the Denver Botanical Gardens that I would love to see.  We flew in on a Tuesday and on Wednesday morning there I was at the Garden gate!  I returned several times more in the following week, and was able to take in the majestic glass pieces at different times of the day watching light come through the glass from different angles completely altering colors, shadows, and reflections as  it poured through translucent glass vessels.

What strikes me about Chihuly's concept is that he takes a  fragile medium, and with the help of the master glassblowers on his teams, creates masterpieces both extensive in size and scope, surpassing any previously perceived limits of what glass is and what it could become.  I have seen his work installed in buildings, in galleries, and in homes, hanging off of bridges and trees, and in photographs and films, even a TV special on his Millenium Exhibition in Jerusalem. 

Purple Spears in the Lily Pond

Cold Blue Explosion

In Denver, cleverly, his gigantic pieces of glass mimic the environment in which they are placed, and/or add an architectural element to the surrounding space.  Acid-neon tinted glass juxtaposed against water, plants, flowers and trees jars the mind and, in the sunlight, creates a visual feast.  The glass globs, blobs, belugas, floats, spears, twisted horns, ferns and frogs feet, are taken from the shapes of nature, but their shocking size, and seemingly unnatural colors, create a magical space, real yet unreal, a place to contemplate how art can mimic, imitate and inform us, and perhaps tell us something new about our world.

Cactus in a Spear Garden

The show at the Denver Botanical Garden runs through the end of November.  I understand as fall approaches and the sun sets earlier, the glass will be lit up in the evenings, creating even more interesting and awe inspiring effects for the viewers.  Sorry though I am to miss the light show, I'm so grateful that I was able to see these works both in the bright morning and afternoon light, and again, later in the day as the sun waned.

From the looks of it, Mr. Chihuly has another successful show.  It seemed that hundreds to thousands of people were pouring into the gardens. Lucky for us, we were able to use a member's pass-key and enter through the back gate. I hope all those gawkers are taking away a new and enhanced awareness of how fine art can work with and through nature allowing us to experience magic!

Yellow Tree/Yellow Fountain

As I conclude, I wonder at the fragility of the medium, and how work on such a major scale might be  preserved for future generations for enjoyment and edification and as a reflection of our culture.  Or, perhaps it is purposefully created with the knowledge that it will not last forever, much like the sand mandalas of Tibetan monks, which are painstakingly painted with sand, only to be blown away later as a lesson on the temporary nature of all life and all things.  I simply don't know.

Boatload of Blue and Purple

Holiday Ornament Reflections

For more information:

www.denverbotanicalgardens
chihuly.denver.org/about-chihuly/

Union Roots Run Deep

Labor Day, September 1, 2014, and I just dropped off my adult son at the Oregon Labor Press and Labor Union sponsored annual Labor Day Picnic at Oaks Park.  I imagine he will join many thousands there to celebrate the historical role of organized labor in Oregon and how it has improved the lives and working conditions of workers here and throughout the US.

My son's interest in the labor movement most likely comes as a result of his political leanings, but perhaps also might be attributed to some "weird" genetic link from our family history.  On my side of his family, his great grandfather actually organized and helped to found a labor union. 

My grandfather and my son's great-grandpa, Joe Lewis (born in Russia, now Latvia, in 1887), was an immigrant to Portland, where he arrived with his family as a boy in 1901.

According to a dog-eared, yellowing newspaper article I have from the Oregon Labor Press, dated, October, 1955, my grandfather, my son's great grandfather, Joe Lewis, helped to organize and found the Meat Cutters Local 143 and became the union's first president.  His name appears on the charter issued by the International Union in 1912!

When his family first arrived in Portland, Joe Lewis and his younger brothers began working by selling newspapers on the streets of downtown.  But "Poppa Joe" (as we affectionately called him) apparently moved on and went to work as a delivery boy at Friedman's butcher shop at S.W. First and Columbia.  I remember hearing "Poppa" tell stories of driving a delivery horse and buggy up S.W. Vista Avenue to homes in the West Hills, where he took meat to Mr. Friedman's customers.

"Poppa" must have been a very strong young man, as he distinguished himself early on in the meat industry by winning many of the veal skinning contests at the annual butchers' picnic! (perhaps a precursor of today's Labor Day affair?)  I was a little girl, and could not imagine my warm and fuzzy "Poppa" actually cutting the skin off an animal. However, as a butcher, he surely cut a lot more!  The article in the Labor Press praises Joe as "a versatile worker and an accomplished craftsman in all phases of the industry, including cutting, curing, and sausage making."

In 1924 Joe Lewis went into the butcher business for himself.  Later, he took in his three brothers, Bill, Harry, and Max, as partners.  In 1934 they established a market in the Portland Public Market (which later became the Oregon Journal Building on S.W. Front Avenue)  In about 1941, Joe and his brothers established Lewis Brothers Alder Market on S.W. First and Washington.  

Apparently he mentored many young people along the way and trained numerous apprentices who went on to careers in the meat industry.  I have had people stop me when they found out I was his granddaughter to tell me what a fine person he was, and how many times he had taken kids on the verge of trouble, and taken them into his "shop" and trained them for a career.  He was a special man, Joe Lewis, an early pioneer in his industry, a meat cutter, union member, and later business owner and industry leader.

We are so proud of you, "Poppa Joe", and we are thinking about your special life and accomplishments on this Labor Day.

***in addition to my recollections, most information is taken from the article "Joe Lewis, Industry Leader and Union's Friend, Retires", by Tony Wolleck, Oregon Labor Press, October, 1955.

The Class Reunion

August and September seem to be the prime months for class reunions.

In my city, these are usually the hottest months of the year, and our class reunion organizers inevitably have picked the hottest day of the year in a non-airconditioned venue to hold our infrequent get-togethers. However, this year was different.  The reunion took place in a family backyard on a rather pleasantly warm evening.  Everyone generously contributed food and drink which fueled an evening of much hilarity and talk. I would guess 50 or 60 classmates elected to attend out of a graduating class of over 700 "baby boomers" attending what was then the largest school in the state by student population.

It was a gregarious group gathered at this reunion.  I've noticed over the years at these get-togethers, that most everyone has overcome high school shyness, inhibitions, "hang-ups" and cliques.  At our age it seems the most  important thing has become the celebration of our shared experiences while in high school, and marking the unforgiving passage of time.

My husband has often suggested to me that the only people who attend high school reunions are those who perceive themselves as being successful.  I don't know if his assessment is correct, but our class certainly has more than its fair share of success stories, including noted doctors, lawyers galore, a judge, artists, writers, educators and administrators, businessmen and women, and even a professional athlete of some note. But there are plenty of us who live plain-old ordinary lives, who perhaps because of a common history, feel confident enough at these reunions to share amongst each other the ups and downs of marriages and divorces, raising children and bragging about grandchildren, the ever-increasing struggles with our own health issues, and now, for many of us, caring for ill and aging parents.   

People comfortably chattered about ordinary lives, of classmates who could not attend, and shared so so many memories.  We recalled who did what crazy thing and if they got away with it. We remembered who sat at what lunch table in the cafeteria and who rode the bus and who car-pooled.  We talked about the faculty and administrators who taught us and shaped us.  And each time we get together, we sadly note the passing of a few more classmates and sadly add their names to that ever-growing list.

This year I noticed a few topics of conversation seemed new.  For instance, there was so much more discussion of health concerns and how we are dealing with them, and one topic I noticed being discussed for the first time: how we are choosing to spend our time and fill our days now that many of us have retired. 

For me seeing high school classmates is good.  It "grounds" me. My classmates serve to remind me of where I came from and how that effects where I am now.  My classmates were there with me in some of my  very formative years, and it is somewhat comforting to know that so many are still there for me. I like to think of our high school years and memories as both formative and positive. 

And sometimes my thoughts turn to high school students of today, who it seems too often, can face life or death challenges in the hallways of their schools. And I wonder if they will perceive themselves as successful and what they will reminisce about at those hot August/September class reunions of the future?

Love to my classmates,
Looking forward to seeing you at our 49th and 50th!

Rocket from Gaza Straight Into My Heart

I am hating this most recent iteration of the Arab Israeli conflict.  That is mostly because I'm not sure what is behind it all:  Muslim factionalism, hatred of Zionism and Jews, or something else that I don't yet understand. But I do know that way too many children are dying in this war, from the three young students found murdered on the West Bank, to the hundreds of small innocents being sacrificed in schools, hospitals, and homes in Gaza, in my opinion, for no good reason.  I have been sick at heart about this for weeks now.

And yesterday, as I attended the funeral of the mother of one of my long-time, dear friends, the war in Gaza took an unexpected and personal turn.  At the funeral, the large vociferous family of the deceased made what is so often a sad occasion into a stunning tribute to their mother, grandmother and great grandmother.  They spoke to her life as a celebration of love, and memories, and stories were shared, and there was much laughter among the tears, and it was a most loving time.  And there was much visiting and sharing among those attending, and I was able to visit with people who I had not seen in a long time. 

Among those I spoke with was my dear Rabbi, one of my long-time teachers, an adviser, and a mentor and a friend.  It has been some time since I have seen him, and I wanted to find out how he was doing.  It was a very hot day and we sat down in a cool place away from the funeral crowd to have a brief visit.

I have known him since I was 5 years old when he first came to our congregation in the early 1950's along with his wife and young family.  His oldest son and I are the same age and we are friends now for more than sixty years. Rabbi's son and I were classmates from kindergarten into high school, where he proved himself to be brilliant beyond the rest of us, and entered university at a young age. Rabbi's son and his family have resided in Israel for decades now, and he is a respected and internationally known scholar.

Rabbi is now close to 93 and, I noticed, walking with a cane. As we sat down together, he immediately shared with me something that obviously was at the top of his mind. Every time his phone rings, he told me, he is afraid to pick it up.  I could not imagine why, and then he went on to explain to me that his son (my childhood contemporary and friend) has a son who has been called up with the Israeli army, and is now, as I write, serving on the front lines in Gaza.  He also casually mentioned that his grandson's particular unit has taken the most casualties.  Rabbi is afraid every time his phone rings.

In a moment, a rocket from Gaza, made a direct hit to my heart, as instantly, the war became personal. An Israeli soldier, very much in harm's way, was someone I knew.  I have known generations of his family.  He has family members who are special to me. The new knowledge sent me into shock.  It took a moment to sink in, and then I gave Rabbi a supportive hug.  And though I don't usually say prayers, I promised him I would direct all my positive focus and energy to that very place where his grandson stands among those who seek his demise.

Ironically, at the celebratory funeral of  woman who lived a fulfilling and long life, I went home with sadness and feeling quite empty, as figuratively, "a rocket from Gaza had created a huge hole my heart".

Morose or Meaningful? A Daily Scan of the Obits

Last week,  I listened to one of my very best friends tell another that she found my daily reading of the obituaries to be "morbid and depressing."  Actually, I have never thought of this daily habit as being either morose or depressing and began a closer examination of  my motives for regularly checking-out the "obits."

My Grandfather (who we called Poppa) was a no-nonsense, blue collar kind of guy, who used to tell the following joke:  "First thing every morning I read the obituaries, and if my name is not listed there, I get dressed and go to work!"  Well, as children we thought that was very funny,  and it probably laid the foundation for me that looking at the obits was not necessarily sad, but rather an expression of ones reality: either "being", or not "being".  And if you are fortunate enough to wake up alive, you simply get on with your day.

In examining my motives, it occurs to me that the regular perusal of  the obituaries can tell as much about the obituary reader as about the deceased.  For example, one who views the obituaries as "depressing" certainly has a very different view of death, than say, one who finds them "informative."

It could well be personality.  We all know, some see the glass half empty; some see the glass half full.  I've always been a "half full" kind of person, and try to look at all aspects of life (and death, I guess) in as positive a way as is possible.  Knowing who has recently passed on is perhaps part of my will to be aware of what is going on in my community. 

I consider a multi paragraph obituary as having historical value as a small part of the greater history of our area. I've always been fascinated by local history, especially family stories, including family trees, marriages, careers, military service, hobbies and interests, accomplishments, and even reasons for death (illness, accident, or old age). 

My son the sociologist would also tell me there is much sociological information one could glean from an obit, including the migrations of ethnic groups to our community from around the world, varying religious beliefs which can be reflected in burial customs, traditions and church affiliation, family sizes, divorce and disease rates, etc.etc.

 I am a fourth generation resident of my community.  My parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and great-grandparents lived here.  Eighty to a hundred years ago it was a smaller, more intimate place where everyone knew everyone else. I've always believed that in our community there are not "six degrees of separation" but only "two to three" --- especially for those like me --- with long family history here. I am familiar with and recognize many family names, businesses, and other connections.  In my various jobs over the years (politics and high-end sales), this awareness of a person's history,  affiliations, and friends, political views, likes and dislikes has proven to be very useful.  It's also been astute for me to know when a person passed away.

Therefore, scanning and reading the obituaries, which I began doing long ago, is meaningful to me on many levels.  I find them to be more interesting than morose.  My dear friend may never agree with me and that's OK.  And, like my Poppa, if  I don't  see my name listed in there, I get dressed, and get on with my day!

Don't Let The Parade Pass You By!

Enthusiastic parade watchers

Wilson High Marching Band

 I have always started out early on parade day so that I can stake out my favorite spot on the route of Portland, Oregon's annual Rose Festival Grand Floral Parade. The parade takes place every June. 

Many of my friends who did not grow up in Portland say to me that they "just don't get the Rose Festival" or the parade.  For many who grew up here, it was part of our childhood and was a magical thing, almost like Christmas in June.  It was a unique aspect of life growing up in Portland. 

Oregon State Police Mounted Patrol

It is rooted into my memories.  I recall leaving for the parade early with my family and friends, and meeting a multitude of my very favorite cousins who would come all the way from the Oregon Coast for parade day.  My Mom packed a load of sandwiches for all us kids including special snacks, and games to keep us occupied. Then, after the parade, she prepared a huge luncheon for tired parade goers.


While waiting patiently for the parade, and playing for what seemed like hours, we would finally hear the thump, thump, thump sound of marching bands that meant the parade was getting closer --- seemingly at a snail's pace --- to where we were.

Rose Festival High School Court

Those long ago Rose Festival Parades, besides being crazy fun, also signaled the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation.  It meant soon-to-come freedom to ride our bikes everywhere, and to play for hours after dinner because it stayed light late into the evening.  The parade meant we could very soon read all the books we wanted, or swim all day at the local pool. For us then, the Rose Parade meant summer was here at last!!!

So you probably can tell, Rose Parade Day was an annual and much loved family tradition. I valiantly tried to pass it all on to my own children and now to my grandchildren.  Though my grand-boys live far away and are busy with activities of their own, they have made it to at least one Rose Parade with their Grannie. I'm not too sure my efforts to continue the parade traditions have been successful.  Yet I still try, and I also try to never miss a Rose Parade Day.

 Nowadays, I simply pack a thermos of coffee, a sweater, a camp chair, and something to read while I wait.  This year's Parade Day dawned a bit cloudy, with the promise of sun breaking through later in the morning. And it did prove to be one of those rare, perfect days for parade watching.

One thing that made this year's parade experience a bit different for me, was that I slipped my new iPhone into my pocket thinking I might snap a few photos.  Not knowing if it was the warm sunshine or the "high" of being surrounded by so many children having the raucous fun I used to have, but, I went crazy taking pictures. 

Surrounded by Red Heads!

Surrounded by Red Heads!

Settling down in my camp chair to do my parade watching, the first thing I noticed was that I happened to be surrounded by beautiful red haired children, their red headed parents, and a few red-tinted grandmas!  It brought a smile to my face, and out came the iPhone.  Then came my high school band, leading the way, followed by hundreds of  "pre-parade walkers," the usual clowns, flags, vintage cars, dignitaries, rodeo queens, floats covered in flowers & all natural materials, sailors, waving queens and princesses, horses, more bands, and representatives from the various cultural communities that make up Portland. This year, the warm sun shone down over it all, adding a brilliance and vibrancy to every sound and color.

 So, I've shared with you some of my memories of Rose Parades past, and offer you photographs from my favorite viewing spot at this year's event.  I hope it will bring back memories of  parades past in your life.

And, if you missed this year's Rose Parade, you just might want to add it to your calendar for next year, or the year after.

Have a great summer, and, remember,

"Don't Let The Parade Pass You By!!!"

For Further Information on the Portland Rose Festival, go to the following link: www.rosefestival.org.

"The Oregonian": Black, White, and Read No More

Remember that joke from when you were a kid --- "Question:  "What is black and white and red all over?  Answer:  a newspaper!!!"  Ha! And you thought that was so hilarious and so funny you fell all over yourself laughing. Well, if  you juggle the semantics and tense as I've done for this post, it isn't so funny. Newspapers are being "read" no more.

My family has just joined the many others who have given up on our daily newspaper. We cancelled our subscription.  This was not done lightly, and frankly, I feel like I am losing an old friend.

 Portland's daily newspaper, The Oregonian, (I affectionately call the "O") has been a part of my life since I learned to read.  I recall my Mom used it as a tool to help us learn to read.   I can go back so far as to remember when there were two daily papers in Portland, the Oregonian in the mornings, and the Oregon Journal in the afternoon.  As a young girl, I devoured those papers, absorbing all the news, gossip, cartoons, and advice they offered on a twice-a-day basis.  I loved keeping track of what was going on so I could join in conversations with adults, and realized that it put me a step ahead of  my classmates at school.  I loved reading the paper.

A few times I have appeared in its pages for one reason or another. Most of the "appearances" were favorable and made me proud that I had achieved recognition in our paper.  As a young professional I was often asked to write press releases which quite often would appear as articles in the paper.  When I owned a small retail business, I regularly purchased advertising in the Oregonian knowing thousands might read about my business.  Occasionally, I would submit an article to the editors.  If it was published,  I felt honored.

For my entire life I have looked to the Oregonian as a resource:  it has been my go-to source for current events news, sports, the cultural scene, voting information, advice columnists, horoscope, and my daily scan of the obits. I have this habit of sitting down each morning, in my most comfortable chair, with a cup of coffee and the Oregonian.  I've always suspected thousands of others did the same.  

Using an iPhone for news will never match that morning experience.  There is no sensory feedback in holding an iPhone. The newsprint of the paper smelled of ink, and rustled and crinkled when you turned the pages. And even worse, for those of us advancing toward senior status, it is darned difficult to read the small print on an iPhone, especially in the early morning.  My future looms -- less informed and way less fun.

Saying all this, I have not forgotten my many friends and acquaintances who have made their careers at the Oregonian.  Many still do. Some have been editors, or reporters or columnists, and some have been involved in circulation and advertising.  I looked up to all of them.  They worked for an iconic and historical newspaper.

Alas, it seems, declining readership and sales, the increasing trend toward computer technology, as well as a younger generation getting its news from other places, has forced the Oregonian, (and many other daily newspapers) to reinvent themselves.  It appears our Oregonian has done this with a sharp knife, slicing away at their award winning coterie of local editors and reporters, and unfortunately relying more on "canned" news from wire services and the big papers back East.  Additionally,  it seems that news space once filled with news stories, is now filled with advertising.  Yuck!  Finally, and here is the really sad news.  Our staid old historical newspaper is now presented to us in a tabloid  format!  To me it smacks of  the National Enquirer and the New York Daily News and their like, which scream out at us with yellow journalism and quasi-news in huge headlines. I just can't bear it any more.

So, after really, really trying the new-fangled "O" for several months, my family agrees, it is time.  We are cutting the cord --- breaking a lifetime habit. After June 1st, we will get the printed Oregonian no more.  We might be able to get our news from various other sources, but it won't be the same.  RIP.

A Birthday With No Memory

Irma c. 1938

Today, Mom turns 90.  There will be no celebration, no gala birthday party.  The champagne punch will not flow.  For Mom, it will be another day of merely existing.  For her family it will be a day of remembering.

 Today we will take her cake and some gifts, sing "happy birthday" and hope that she will respond in some way.  These days dementia allows her to recognize things only when all the synapses in her brain cells are connecting.  Lately, the messages seem to be getting through less and less.  Mom has been sliding downhill into late stage Alzheimer's and dementia for the last 12 to15 years.

It is hard to pinpoint when it started.  I remember, maybe15 years ago, asking her if she could pick me up at the airport, something she often did.  She told me it was too hard for her.  I didn't realize what that meant.  It meant, she couldn't remember how to get there or how to get home.

We talked on a daily basis, she and I.  Then one day I noticed she was not calling me. I was only calling her.  She couldn't remember my phone number.

She would forget she was not supposed to bend over to take care of her feet.  Several times she was rushed to the hospital by ambulance in terrible pain.  She had forgotten and reached for her toes, popping out her artificial hip.

It was a slow, insidious process.  We began to notice that she was no longer cooking.  She could not remember how to put a meal together.  She stopped driving after getting lost too many times on her way to shop or do her volunteer work at the library.  The progression was so gradual we hardly noticed.  At times she talked about feeling like her head was full of cotton.  We began to find little stashes of torn up tissues in her drawers. Huh?  She always took a brief afternoon nap, and then she began to spend her entire day in bed.  She was a woman who loved young children and worked professionally with them as a teacher.  We knew something was not right when she began losing her temper with her own grandchildren, and eventually completely lost interest in their activities.

When I tell people that my Mom has Alzheimer's, they inevitably ask me the same tiresome question, "Does she know who you are?"  The answer is, "Yes, at some level she recognizes us. On a really good day she might remember my name.  On a bad day, she will lower her head and barely respond to anything."  I believe we are familiar to her in the way we speak to her, in our demeanor and our appearance.  It has taken all of us a long time to realize the depth and complexity of Alzheimer's disease. Essentially, it is a severe brain injury. Understanding it has been a difficult process for us and very likely a frustrating experience for her.

So, on the occasion of  her 90th birthday, each of us, daughters, sons in law, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, will remember who she used to be, before this terrible illness took her brain.

IRMA, born in Portland, Oregon, a graduate of Alameda Grade School, Grant High School, and the first in her family to receive a college degree; she was an award winning equestrian, who won dozens of ribbons riding competitively during her high school years; she was a professional preschool and kindergarten teacher for more than 25 years, who was beloved by many hundreds of students who still remember her; she was a fervent  FDR liberal who taught her children, nieces and nephews, the importance of equal rights and equal education for all; she loved animals and birds, as long as they were in the zoo, not her own home; she was a marvelous cook; a gardener, and a grandmother who took an active role in raising her young grandchildren; she loved to read and took her children to the library every week; she loved jazz and Broadway musicals, and her family was the core of her existence.

She was a bright, educated, and accomplished woman, who was respected in her professional life.  Alzheimer's has taken it all away --- wrecking havoc with her brain and impacting so many of us who love her.  We have witnessed the slow mental and physical deterioration of a beautiful and bright spirit, and experienced the frustration, anger, and finally total sadness as we see our Mother and Grandmother disappearing before our eyes.

Today we mark her milestone 90th year and hope we can somehow convey to her our love and pride in the many accomplishments of her life.  We realize she can no longer understand the intangible gifts she has given to all of us.   There are so many, but perhaps the most important being, learning to be patient with her limitations, treating her situation as an illness, and finally, the importance of giving her all the dignity and respect she deserves.
  

Irma c. 1930

Irma  c. 1940

Irma  c. 1950

Irma c. 1969

Irma c. 1980

Irma c. 2012

Happy 90th, Mom.

Russian Roulette

Several weeks ago, following the advice of my inner voice that said, "go, go, go," I attended a symposium at Portland's Mittleman Jewish Community Center entitled, "Your Jewish Genes and Cancer." 

For some time I have known that I might be at high risk for breast cancer.  Both my mother and sister have dealt with breast cancer at different stages of their lives:  Mom at about age 73, and then, years later, my sister's cancer was discovered at age 44.   After their positive diagnoses, both had a lumpectomy, followed by a course of radiation, and both have been extremely fortunate --- with no cancer recurrence.  Then, last fall, while visiting relatives in the mid-West, I learned that a cousin there --- on my Dad's side --- had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and undergone a mastectomy.

My family (both father and mother) are eastern European Jews called Ashkenazim, and generation after generation of these eastern Europen Jews living separately in ghettos in places like Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Russia and Hungary, married among themselves which led to a proliferation of certain genetic mutations and a higher risk for some inherited diseases, among them, breast cancer.  At the April symposium, I learned that the risk of developing breast cancer among the general population is 1 in 400.  For Ashkenazic Jews, the risk is 1 in 40.  Quite a shocking difference! 

Admittedly, I have known of my risk for quite some time.  I am an well educated woman who as a rule, makes good decisions about my life.  Since my sister's bout with breast cancer, however, I have, you might say, been playing Russian Roulette. I read with interest what the so-called experts have to say about not needing a mammogram every year, and I go ahead and get one annually anyway, in spite of such "expert" opinions. And, every year I go feeling both unbelievably anxious and stressed.  And every year as I get older, that anxiety seems to increase.  

Reluctantly, following that persistent inner voice, I attended the April symposium at the Jewish Community Center.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I experienced that evening, walking into that room, seeing so many familiar faces!   I was in shock!  So many women, many of whom I have known for years, grown up with, worked with on various committees and boards, embraced me and  shared their stories of being diagnosed with BRCA1** and/or BRCA2**,  the genetic mutation that puts so many Jewish women at risk for breast cancer. Others were waiting for the results of genetic testing to determine if they are BRCA1 or BRCA2 carriers. If positive, this had significant implications for not just them, but their children and grandchildren as well. Apparently among my friends, this is a health topic that is not readily discussed. I continue to be amazed that so many women I know, are dealing with these same issues I have been avoiding.

I left that symposium a different person, certainly more aware that I had been hiding from the truth, and playing Russian Roulette with myself and my children. I need to assess my risk for breast cancer with an expert, a genetic counselor.  I need to find out what my health insurance will pay for, and what it won't pay for.  Most importantly, I need to begin to think about my options --- if --- such testing proves that I am a carrier of the BRCA1 or BRCA2 genes.  How will my family feel if it is determined a double mastectomy would be my best option?  What are my chances if I do nothing? What, what, what........

("The Angelina Jolie Factor:"  This famously beautiful young woman and mother, announced recently, she had undergone a double mastectomy and breast reconstruction after genetic testing proved she was a carrier of a  BRCA gene.  Breast cancer had been her mother's killer some years ago.)

My Portland Jewish lady-friends and vicariously, Angelina Jolie, are urging me toward genetic testing.  Yet, I continue to think, procrastinate, and have not yet made that call to the genetic counselor.  My husband's health and my mother's health seem to take up all my time, energy and priorities.  I keep promising myself to call that number, which even now, sits right in front of me.

                                            Me, my Mom, and my sister, c.1965

**BRCA1 and BRCA2 can also cause breast cancer in men.

Friends and Family:  Your thoughts and comments will be read and appreciated.

Back in the Bird's Nest!

Once the fog of re-entry settles after a month away, it actually seems good to be home.  It takes a while for my control-freak personality to get everything cleaned, and back in its own place.  The Bird's Nest looks better every day and a few days of sunshine have allowed Mt. Hood to appear in all her glory through the windows.  I've placed a bowl of green anthuriums on the coffee table for just that little touch of Hawaii.  They look beautiful, and I am finally feeling like I have time to sit down once again with a good book, or write a new blog post!

(Best of all, I am now able to add photos from my iphone to my blog!  After much computer/iphone frustration, it finally works and I am feeling that it will be a good thing to share photos along with thoughts.) 

As always, this year's Hawaii/Oahu quest was to stay as far away as possible from buses of  tourists and mobs crowding downtown Waikiki.  Staying away from throngs of people has become my great obsession as I get older. So, staying on the "other side" of the island is a must, and I purposefully plan days that largely take us to places the "hordes" have not yet found.  "Where can that be on Oahu?" you might ask. Well, there are quite a few locales that currently are almost untouched by tourists.

For example, take the lovely Turtle Bay area on the North Shore where photographic scenes like this abound.   A good lunch at Ola restaurant on the beach with sand in your toes and under your table is a great place to go for relaxation, and then if you are lucky, to catch a surf competition, Sunset Beach is ten minutes up the road. You might catch a wedding here, or a polo tournament nearby, or ponder the monument to those who spotted the first Japanese fighters as they approached Pearl Harbor in December, 1941.

Chinatown in Honolulu seems it would be overrun with tour buses. But it doesn't seem to be the case. During the day at the shops and markets, and into the evening, shoppers seem mostly local.  With our Honolulu friends showing us the way to good Chinese food, we also stumbled on a beautiful alter to the Quon Yin in the Cultural Plaza: a calming presence in the midst of Honolulu.

About as "away" as one can get from the tourist rabble is the Valley of the Temples Memorial Park at Ahuimanu, just north of Kaneohe.  The "Beyodo In" is an exact replica of a Buddhist Temple of the same name in Japan.  This year we rang the giant bronze bell three times in memory of my Dad, followed a roaming peacock, and sat before the giant golden Buddha offering incense and sending our thoughts and prayers to eternity.

 

Macabre as it seems, Oahu cemeteries drew me in this year.   Their appeal has a historical quality, and they encourage quiet and meditation.  Also, in Oahu, except for the Punch Bowl Memorial, cemeteries don't generally attract the tour bus crowd.  Yet they have a unique, and somber beauty.  The Japanese Buddhist Cemetery in Kaneohe is lovely, more so when the mountain mists are rolling through. 

What I most love about my travels, is encountering the unexpected: a bird, a waterfall, a unique flower, a vista that takes my breath away.  Now with my iphone, I am able to snap a photo and later, when I return home, a brief look can transport me back to that moment.  And, thanks to this miraculous technology, I can now share it with blog friends as well!

                                                                       ALOHA!