It's a Puzzle

Sam loves to do jigsaw puzzles. It is a quiet, peaceful hobby, and one he is very good at. I am not sure how he strategizes his game, but he can put the pieces together quickly and with an air-punching cheer at the end. "Puzzle" was a movie that came out this summer, and seemed to be made just for my son, (at least from the trailers enticing us to go). Sam got a kick out of the actual puzzle piece moments, but the storyline fell short of an air-punching cheer at the end. With a plot that involved pieces coming together, there should have been an over-arching theme with characters coming together in a way that symbolizes the satisfaction of a puzzler fitting in his final piece. Imagine working on a 1000 piece puzzle only to not have the last piece? You can't run your hand over the surface and feel like you accomplished the impossible. Not with a piece missing. We left the theater feeling as if a piece was missing somewhere.

I think there must be a gene that gets passed down for doing puzzles. Sam is a clone of his father and they can both speed through Suduko and they can both unscramble a jumble without writing all the letters in different ways on the side of the paper. I love puzzles too, but unlike my son who likes to solve them, I think I make my life harder by creating them. The challenge is irresistible to me. I never begin writing with an outline for a story. I never start my paintings with a full composition in mind. I start where I start and I travel through the page or the canvas in some sort of creepy hypnotic state. The challenge to get it all right by the end is part of the joy of the puzzle and defines creativity for me. My art is always a puzzle in search of a solution.

My Painting of Paris from 10 years ago

Norman and I went to Paris for our 25th wedding anniversary and I came back with tons of photos as inspiration for a painting. Imagine going to Paris with an artist? He was such a good sport during that trip, following me around all the museums. Every time he posed with a sculpture, he made me laugh. I used my images from Paris to create a painting on my new easel the family bought me for my birthday that year. I experimented by painting in the style of Pablo Picasso, Claude Monet and all of my other favorite artists. I did not plan out a composition, but simply started painting each image and then adding the next one, fitting the parts together as I went, kind of like a puzzle.

Detail of the ballerina from my painting

Degas' sculpture of a fourteen-year-old dancer was the first thing I painted on the canvas. I'll never forget Zach coming down the stairs and staring at my painting. He cocked his head and asked why I was painting Serena Williams. "It is not a picture of a tennis player!" I exclaimed. "It is a painting of a bronze ballerina!" The little ballerina was all by herself on the canvas with no connection to Paris or art or any other theme, so I suppose he made a good guess. All I knew was that she had to be in my painting, so I began with her. She was the beginning of my puzzle. I wasn't sure what was going next, but she shined as brilliantly as the real sculpture throughout the process. If I did it again, she might be in a very different place and it would be a very different puzzle with a very different solution. All I am sure of is that I get much joy out of the final stroke, just as Sam does with his final piece.

Movies should offer us entertainment and some sort of message. They should not be a puzzle with a piece missing. And our lives should be filled with the pieces that make us happy, arranged in a way that makes us who we are.

A Day for Pedal Pushers

"Is it true? Are pedal pushers really back in style? Yes!
The cropped pant that was made popular by Audrey Hepburn in her iconic 1960’s Gap commercial has reemerged."

Back on the Fourth of July, we piled all of our crew into three cars and drove up to Ricky and Barbara's house. It was a lovely backyard BBQ with their little granddaughters making us all smile. All it took was a hat to protect the baby's head from the sun and a bit of water on a waterslide for Lillie and Emma to be happy. The rest of us sat around in a circle on the lawn and watched their squeals and giggles. One of my brother's friends said hello to my dad and then turned to me and said hello to Betty, thinking I was my dad's wife. Okay, maybe now that I am retired, I am part of some old lady's club that could range 30 years or more. I smiled at him as I smiled at Lillie. Then corrected him. I am my father's daughter, not his wife. I am 61 to Betty's 90. That is one long-reaching, proud club to belong to.

Norman also belongs to a club. It is called the Romeo's. Retire Old Men Eating Out. His breakfast club meets once a month in a local diner. Most of the guys are retired teachers and they get to reminisce and complain as old men do. There are days my husband will come home from breakfast so sad that someone has a new diagnosis or is on an oxygen tank. All horrible old men stuff. Still, he loves to get together with them, compare and complain. He is honored to be a Romeo. Only thing is that I don't consider him to be an old man. Not yet. We've got 30 good years of complaining ahead of us.

Ranney School began its orientation meetings this week for teachers who are still teaching. Instead, we went to see a movie and had Chinese food for dinner. After "Crazy Rich Asians" who wouldn't want a dumpling? How great if all decisions could be as easy as that? Maybe that's a good thing that happens in retirement. I stood in line for the movie behind two retired women. They might have been twins, they looked so much alike. It seems like all retired women of a certain age wear pedal pushers in pastel colors with printed blouses, white sandals with arthritic painted toes peeking out of the front, a sweater in case it might be cold, and a purse, of course. Their whitish hair is always nicely brushed and there is a hint of lipstick. At 116 degrees on this crazy hot day, retired women of a certain age go to the movies. I stood behind them feeling like I was in their club. My pedal pushers are called capris and I wore sneakers, not sandals, but still. On this day, I did not have to listen to a Headmaster introducing new faculty and reviewing mission statements. I was not cringing at a film about bloodborne pathogens. I was contemplating the deeper meaning of humanity, watching altacockers in Matawan enjoy a crazy movie about rich people from Singapore. I am not an altacocker yet. I wear capris, not pedal pushers.

"Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today."
Ben Franklin was very quick with his words for the wise. Problem is, I have no idea what I should get done today. What do you say to that, Ben? Sometimes you just want to be lazy and not do it all. Sometimes you just want to cool off at the movies. I have nothing looming on the horizon, not on my easel nor in my inbox. An empty day planner would have scared me back in June. I’ve learned to take it all in stride. Finishing my big summer project, Murray the portrait, was my big accomplishment for the week. Yesterday, I thought about getting a frame for the painting and decided to splurge on a good one for once. Murray is worth it. My painting is worth it. I set prices for people who might ask for an original B.Levine and reached out to more parents about tutoring art. All that decision making was enough for one day. The rest I'll tackle tomorrow. I have a few more days before August ends. I am still on Summer break. Sort of. Then I officially begin my retirement. I better go dust the mothballs off my pedal pushers.

Murray the Portrait

This is Murray. He just needs a frame and a place of honor on the wall.

We once brought home a container with sea monkeys that I left on the top of the stove and boiled by accident. They weren’t the greatest of pets, no personality or anything, but I still felt bad. Then we had a pair of goldfish named Bert and Ernie. These little guys probably came from a fair or something. I didn’t boil them to death but I did knock them off the counter and had to fish them off the floor when nobody was looking. They didn’t live very long. Eventually, we moved on to a parakeet with a huge cage that couldn't be knocked over or boiled. We named our bird, Willie. Sam loved Willie. We all did. We took Willie to camp every summer and he enjoyed fresh air on the screened in porch of Hillside 34 for many years. He was a cute feathered friend and he made me felt better about my ability to take care of someone. I killed everything else, including most of my plants and many dinners. It’s amazing that my kids survived.

Zach used to ask for a dog every Chanukah. We love dogs and we would have adopted one year earlier just for him, but camp did not allow them. We finally gave in. If it was a small one, maybe we could sneak it in under a towel. The boy never asked for anything. When were we getting a dog? When he was ready to go away to college?

So that’s when Babs walked into our lives. Katie found her around the corner and we became dog owners. A sadder looking thing I’ve never seen. She was badly abused with cuts and bruises and infections all over her skinny body, and very much in need of love. We didn’t realize she was also pregnant. That was many years ago. We’ve come along way from those sea monkeys. My dogs enjoyed a good life, including some great summers chasing the geese on the shores of Sylvan Lake. Babs was given the royal treatment as a loving mama in our house. Her daughter, Hannah, lived almost 17 years of a joyous life. Translated into human years, she made it to 119. We gave her 17 years of love and she gave us back 119 years worth of pure, unconditional loyalty and love. That’s not a bad bargain. Everyone should have a pet.

The other day was National Dog Day. Shouldn't every day be National Dog Day? Murray is now the king of our house and has our undivided attention. Andrea found him on the street, a scared and wild puppy who marched into our home and took over our bed and our hearts. He is now the sweetest, most affectionate of any pet we ever owned. I think rescue dogs know when they have been rescued, and will spend the rest of their lives thanking you. Murray snuggles up against me at night and growls at Norman for coming to bed, but he secretly loves him too. He only wants attention and found it in Katie's arms, Zach's arms and in our home. 

This painting of Murray is now my ninth dog portrait and the largest one yet. It was such a pleasure for me to capture my handsome boy on a canvas. This was not a commissioned piece. It was not a gift that had to be completed on a time schedule or a portrait to be done before or after the death of a dog. It was just a summer project and it was done for me, an artist at play with a few new techniques and a brand new painter's palette picked out as a gift to myself. I took my time with this project in an art studio I am still amazed to have. Murray the painting just needs a frame and he will be hanging on our wall as the King of the Manor. Which he is. Thank you again for finding him, Andrea. 

Does anyone else want a dog portrait? My easel is available and I’ve got lots of time, that is when I’m not walking my dog.

A Relic from the Past

Norman back in the day talking on an early iPhone

"Let your fingers do the walking"
Who remembers that commercial? You do if you remember the days before a cell phone was attached to the end of your arm. It's been a long time since I looked in the yellow pages and asked my fingers to take a walk. I bet it's been a long time since anyone exercised their fingers. So why was a phone book delivered to every house on our block today? Do we all have chubby fingers?

Q: Why are there so many Johnsons in the phone book?
A: They all have phones.

I remember getting a new phone book delivered to our house in Whitestone and we were so excited to see if our name was in the book, if it was spelled correctly and if we were listed with the right number. Then I would check all of my friend's names, just to make sure they were in there too. Back then, a new phone book was a big deal. It was as important to have as the phone.

"... is this the party to whom I am speaking?"
Lily Tomlin was so funny on Laugh-In. I am dating myself here, but I remember dialing O for the operator and a real live person not only helped me find a number but dialed it for me. I am so old, I actually get Jim Croce’s lyric, "Operator, Oh could you help me place this call?" If the phone book did not have every number in your local area, the operator did.

If the phone book that arrived today does not have every number in Monmouth County, my dated 6S iPhone can find it. My dated iPhone connects to the world wide web whatever that is and will also place the call for me. Back in the day when I was a short kid, I used to stand on the phone book to reach tall things. Now, I am taller than most people (except for Sam) and I don't need it for that. I now have an iPhone 6S that knows more numbers than any printed book. So what do I do with this thick manuscript that came today? Any suggestions? It arrived without any fanfare and without any reason. It is such a waste of white and yellow paper.

They say if an actor is any good, they can read the phone book and it would sound great. Has anyone seen Morgan Freeman walking around Monmouth County? I have a script for him.

Finding your Tribe

Sheryl and Dave's kids with our boys. Carlye and Seth are now parents with sons of their own.

This morning Sam woke pretty early for a Sunday and headed out to his car with his ukulele. Less than an hour later, we received a text on our phones with the caption, “I found the right place!” His short video was shot in a park filled with other uke players, many just like Sam and many more my age. He found a jam session filled with his people! I’d be more excited if they were making jam, but for my son, he found his musical tribe. And that is truly a glorious feeling.

While Sam was at the park, we drove down to the beach. On one of the most beautiful Sundays of the summer, we got to relax without a care in the world. That is also a glorious feeling. Looking around the crowded beach, there are communities of people on every blanket. People are sleeping, people are swimming, people are on their iPods being very antisocial (like me). Everyone has their own tribe. There are cute bikini-clad girls who look great in their selfies, families with way too many sets of sandy arms, legs, and feet, older folks hoping the sand doesn't fall in their lunch, and then, of course, the women next to us trying to install their beach umbrella tent thing and wishing they had an engineer in their tribe.

Finding your tribe can be as fleeting as a jam session in the park. It can also be found through the accident of your birth, with connections you spend your entire life discovering. Our two-week free membership to Ancestry introduced Norman to ancestors on trees he didn’t know he had. Facebook and Ancestry did more for the growth and closeness of an international community than any other modern creation. I follow people on social media from all over the world and I consider some of them to be my good friends. Artists inspire me and bloggers offer advice just when I need it. An Instant Pot community on Facebook instantly answered a question I had in the middle of making dinner! That’s what friends are for. I still prefer the old-fashioned kind who is there with a hug when you most need one, but community should be a part of life wherever can you find it.

Our tribe seems to be growing lately. Another baby boy was just born, Spencer Grey Rubin. Spencer is the son of Norm’s godson, Seth, the grandson of his oldest buddy, David, and the grandnephew of his Aunt El, one of my oldest and dearest friends. Spencer was born into a community of people who already adore him. We can’t wait to meet him next week at the Bris, and not just because Norman gets to enjoy some lox on a bagel. Spencer and his slightly older cousin, Sonny, were both born this year and both carry the name for their grandmother, Sheryl. In the Jewish religion, we name a child in memory of someone who passed on before they were born. It is a tradition steeped in love and honor for the memory of someone special. If anyone deserves two strapping boys to carry on her legacy, it is David’s wife, Sheryl.

When I gave birth to Zach (who carries the name for my own mother), Sheryl was my lifeline. Without having a mother or a mother-in-law, Sheryl stepped in and helped me buy an outfit for Zach’s Bris, she showed me how to bathe my son and hold onto his tiny, soapy, slippery body, and she gave me the confidence to be a mother. She also taught me the very definition of community. People helping people, not because they are related, but because they care.

So next week, we honor a new baby and the memory of another friend who should have been a grandparent. That’s community. Always changing, always growing and very much a part of how you define yourself. Who's in your tribe?