The Levine's of Florida

Uncle George with Ira and his nephews. He adopted Florida as his home.

Our drive to David's neighborhood from West Palm Beach airport was not at all like driving down the New Jersey Turnpike with smoking factories on the right and a big blue IKEA on the left. You know you are in New Jersey when you land in Newark. Here, we drove along quiet, wide streets dotted with Italian villas. Each community announced their presence in a grand way, focusing our attention on stone archways, beautiful waterfalls, sparkling fountains, and lush tropical leaves. I am not sure why they all have Italian names. We saw Valencia Shores, Valencia Palms and Valencia Bay. There were variations of communities named after Villas, Venetians, and Villaggios. The Italians must really enjoy the letter V and the Floridian Jews must really love the Italians. If it weren't for the palm trees, I would have thought the pilot took us out of the country.

We also passed a neighborhood with the unfortunate title of Journey's End. Floridians, as well as every human from every other state, will eventually meet their journey's end. We all will. But why rub it in? Journey's End might be a great place to live, but I am sorry, that is not a good name. Nor is The Falls. Completely missing the reference to its waterfalls, I immediately thought of the commercial with the lady who falls and can't get up. Don't you think there could be some more upbeat communities for the sunshine state?

Uncle George moved down to Florida years ago with his family. He did meet his journey's end here, but his legend lives on. Just yesterday at the pool, Norman met a man he knew from the Board of Ed, another legend in his own right, and they were reminiscing about Uncle George. Like my husband, his uncle's reputation precedes him. All who know of him, love him. A New York City gym teacher from Canarsie High School, Uncle George will live on forever as a Floridian, basking in the sun at his pool and remembering a life that touched many.

Visiting with Uncle George's family.
Richie and his wife, Gracie

Aunt Sonia and Paula

There are many who now call Florida home, just like this branch of the Levine family tree. But there are also many native to this area, including a vast population of earth's creatures. My favorite activity besides painting animals, is taking a walk and seeing animals. Florida has scores of nature preserves and wetlands, each with an abundance of wildlife and forestry. Green Cay is such a place. This trail gave us a reason to fall in love with Florida beyond the appeal of a warm winter or a warm hug from the people we have been missing.

Norman's friend Brian introduced us to Green Cay. A narrow boardwalk raised above lakes and grassy swamps meanders through the preserved land, offering many opportunities to bird watch or take a photograph. Norm was so excited to see his friend and they spent the 3 mile trek catching up. Once we said goodbye to Brian, the two of us set out again on a much more leisurely pace just to absorb the beauty before us. Many Floridians come to walk in Green Cay, but most do not come for exercise, they come with tripods and cameras slung over the necks. I am assuming those impossibly huge back lenses were telescopic to capture a rare bird on a distance tree. My brother would know this better than I would and I hope he could come one day with his equipment and enjoy the wildlife that abounds here.

How ironic. We came down to Florida to see people we've been missing, and I spent the morning thinking about my brother, a photographer who lives in New York. When you experience something this spectacular, you want to share it with the people you love. I am glad Norman and I got to walk this path together.

The animals of Green Cay call this place home. We are intruding on their world with our foot path, yet they seemed not to care. Some of the birds perched on the railing and did not fly away even as we approached. How lovely that some creatures can get along with each other in such sweet symbiosis. The people of this country should take a lesson from them, hopefully before we kill them all off. The Earth is a beautiful place to live.

So is Florida... something Uncle George knew very well.

Flying to Flakowitz

These two could stay in the pool all day.

Here is my husband getting fitted with a snorkel thing.
David has all the newest Florida gadgets!

My first plane ride happened when I was a teen. I flew across the country with my parents. I don’t know what I imagined I’d see out of the plane window other than an image of Georgia O’Keeffe’s painting of clouds. When I looked down over the land, I was surprised to see vast, unending stretches of brown and green fields. I guess I was expecting some sort of border identifying the states, after all, my only view of the country was a map in school with black lines separating the states. Where were the black lines when I looked out of the plane window? How will anyone ever find California, Florida or New York? Geography was obviously not my strong suit.

Along with my many quirky personality traits, I suffer from a bad case of acrophobia. I don’t do down escalators, especially those big open ones in the department stores. I won’t look over high balconies like there are in Shmooey’s building or chance a peek through the panoramic windows of Vicki’s New York City apartment. But if I could open the window of an airplane and stick my head out to see what is 35,000 feet below me, I would. That makes no sense, I know. I love to fly. I would have missed out on some really great trips if I let my fear of heights take over the skies too.

Norman picked up a Post before boarding our plane to Florida. I usually don’t read a print newspaper as I prefer up to the minute internet coverage to stay informed. Doesn’t everyone want to get their bad news as fast as possible? Halfway into our flight, Norman was sound asleep and dreaming of pickleball, so I grabbed his newspaper. This guy murdered that guy. That guy punched this guy in the face. Some creep ejaculated all over a woman’s back in the subway. Yuck. Why does he read this stuff? My personal favorite was a story where TV anchor, Rosanna Scotto’s son testified that a man admitted to killing someone in his home. After the murder, the killer sat down to eat pancakes. Gee, it must not have fazed him much. It seems that murderers can have a night of good fun and still enjoy a hearty breakfast. And because this was the New York Post, the pancakes made the headlines, not the murder. Fear of crime on the streets chased us out of Brooklyn many years ago and I bet it’s why people retire to Florida, leaving the city and the cold behind.

Newark to Florida seemed a short and easy flight to me, but then again, I was not flying the plane. Thank goodness for that. I don't have much experience these days with airplanes. We had a wonderful male flight attendant who I had assumed was the pilot but then wondered who was doing the flying when he was busy handing out drinks and cookies. (I guess they’re not called stewardesses any more.) The plane touched down in West Palm Beach with applause from the snowbirds happy to have reached their winter home safely. I was looking forward to the warm welcome of Florida and seeing where David lives, but there was a down escalator in the airport I still had to deal with. I could fly, I just can’t ride a moving stairwell. I don't think I am that old, but maybe I do belong with the altacockers after all.

A beautiful home

And it comes with a cute butler along with Delmy

Our friend David has a lovely palatial home, with artwork worthy of any museum. And his newspaper, The Palm Beach Post, is a much more delightful read than its New York cousin. No murders were discussed in this paper and pancakes were only offered as a recipe for the home chef. The top story in David’s Post mentioned a man hired to remodel a home. He left his truck unlocked and when he returned to his vehicle, all of his tools were missing. The man wasn’t killed, but his day certainly was. This made news in West Palm Beach. No plate of pancakes would have make up the difference for him. 

Unless, of course, it was served to him by Maddy, the waiter at Flakowitz.

Norman, as the more experienced guest Floridian, told me that my first visit to the sunshine state would not be complete without visiting Flakowitz of Boca. He said anybody who is anyone would be having breakfast there between 9:30 and 10:00, and we will probably run into a Brooklyn homey or two. My husband finds friends no matter where we are, and sure enough, we heard, “Oh, Mr. Levine!” as soon as we parked the car. An old coworker from Norman’s school was so excited to see him that she dropped her laundry in the parking lot before we ever got into the famous Jewish eatery. That’s my husband. Friends flock to him like a Brooklyn Jew to a good bagel store.

Flakowitz has fat New York style bagels, enticing aromas of freshly baked babka,
appetizing perfect for a Bris or a daily brunch, and knishes that should be classified as a cultural phenomenon. This is a Jewish Mecca of delight and I could understand why it has such a large following. Guy Fieri’s face was even plastered on the walls. It’s not just Jews who enjoy a good smear.

Sue was our hostess. She was in charge of crowd control and she did this with a smile, joking around with the hungry guests who lined up for a table. Sue refilled coffees and happily swept the floor between seating her customers. This was a woman who should have retired years ago along with the folks who think every day is Sunday, but she clearly loved her job. The regulars kiss her goodbye and thank her before leaving just as they would thank their mom for a home cooked meal. Coming to Flakowitz is like
visiting your extended family.

A Flakowitz brunch starts with a plate of complementary marble cake. Friendly waiters who know everyone’s name offer coffee and oatmeal as an appetizer. Two elderly ladies at the table next to ours were discussing the marble cake. I bet they meet there every morning and exchange the same words, as if they memorized the lines of a funny script. The marble cake was very light and one of them remarked that it was from properly beaten egg whites. Her friend said that there were other flavors in the cake that made it so delicious. She knew better, after all, she was the baker. There’s not much a Jew enjoys more than a heated argument. Except maybe a good breakfast special.

I think I like it here!

Florida is a lovely place. We arrived at the airport in New Jersey wearing winter coats and we’ve been living in shorts ever since. Friends and family we haven’t seen in years are welcoming us with hugs and stories of a happy life. The sun is shining, the skies are blue even if the forecast calls for a shower, and our friend’s home is like a dream. The best part of this vacation is seeing David in his element. He is as handsome as ever, swimming in his pool and busy meeting friends for a game of poker or a lecture. He just needs to buy Delmy some baking powder and vanilla so I can make him a proper piece of mandel bread... a breakfast treat worthy of any Flakowitz order.

Come From Away

A KR backdrop of Hopewell Junction that Sue and I painted for a camp musical.
Those were the days when a set dressed the stage.

Broadway has changed, and I don't mean the couple of city blocks now lined with tables and chairs. The entire experience has changed. I can remember when our seats faced a velvet curtain and an overture filled the air with music and anticipation. A full orchestra was as important to the Broadway experience as the illusion a set designer created behind the velvet. Shows do not have overtures anymore and they all seem to have taken down the curtains that used to rise into the rafters. The stage of your next show will probably be in full view as you walk in, with members of the cast or crew roaming around and setting things up. Nothing is hidden, not even the actors; the audience is the one making the dramatic entrance.

An intermission is something else that seems to have become a thing of the past. Better locate the restrooms before you find your seat.

Not everything has changed. Ushers in uniforms still escort you to your seat, hopefully on an aisle or with lots of leg room. Last night all the ushers in the Schoenfeld Theater wore the usual tight black pants and jacket, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a colorful tie. I happily thanked ours for our Playbill even though I can't remember the last time I actually read the program. Now we just hold it up in front of us for a Facebook selfie and hope a little square piece of paper does not fall out. Last night, an understudy was given the break she was waiting for, but it didn't much matter to us when the notice fell out of the program. It wasn't like Carol Channing was out sick. All the actors in this show were wonderful. It was more of a team effort, a far cry from the days when there was the star and then there was the rest of the cast.

Our audience was of a certain age, like me. Most would remember Broadway as I remember Broadway. In the row in front of us sat an older gentleman with an impressive head of silver hair and bright red glasses. His wife (I assume) had bright red hair and silver glasses. I found that amusing and I wondered if she dyed her hair to match his glasses. Next to them sat a couple we met while we were waiting outside. As it happens in Jewish geography, we knew people from their over-55  neighborhood in New Jersey. And they went to Tilden High School in Brooklyn, just like my husband. People of a certain age not only have people and places to talk about, but they help each other take selfies. I know it is not really a selfie, but sometimes you need another set of hands to get your face and the sign in the same picture.

Come From Away hangs a poster outside the theatre just for your selfies.

People of a certain age also tend to dress up for the theatre. Last night, I admired how proper and fancy one man looked with his suit and tie. His wife was dripping with jewels. (I forgot to wear mine.) With this age bracket of theatergoers, the actors get to enjoy a well-dressed audience.

The set for Come from Away was not dressed to impress. Trees lined the simple stage and we were invited to watch the musicians set their stands and instruments among the branches. Chairs and tables were the only props. The small cast of twelve actors moved the furniture around themselves and they played multiple roles, taking off a jacket or adding a hat for a simple costume change. It was all so minimalistic.

Come From Away is not the story of 9/11. It was the story of 9/12 and the days following the attacks. Travelers to the US were diverted to a small town in Newfoundland. Canada welcomes us every time we need to escape our country or our airways. From Vietnam to Trump, we always have a reason to cross the border. This show told us the story of the stranded plane people and the amazing friendly neighbors in Canada who embraced them with open arms, a change of clothes and a place to sleep. I could not imagine such a horrific tale set to music, but the show ended with a big song and dance finale, so I guess it could be defined as a musical. A Tony Award show, Come From Away was very well done... even without impressing us under the Broadway lights we remember.

If a stage does not have a curtain, can the actors still have a curtain call?

A better question is why we went to see a show about planes making emergency landings just days before we board our United Airlines flight for a vacation. Let's just hope our landing does not become a story that deserves a stage.

Baby, it's cold outside!

This was our Aunt Elke, shown here with her nephews.
She had flown up from Florida to celebrate her granddaughter's wedding.

We woke up to 34 degrees. A cold morning. Our old blankets outlived their appearance and warmth after a dog and two humans snuggled into the fibers for so many years. During the summer, I made my bed with a lovely new lightweight quilt. It came with a fancy pillow sham and it was fun to dress the mattress each morning. My bedroom became a symbol of a perfect house.

Once the temps dropped, the old covers were thrown back on and my carelessly made bed came back home like a child from college. So as any good homemaker would, I used my 30% off an already cheap sale price at Kohl's and bought two new warm blankets in a pretty color. My house is well dressed again. Now we are enveloped in warmth at night. It was close to freezing this morning; we need the warmth.

This was Norman's text to me this morning.
 He likes our new blanket, but not New Jersey.

Norman says he needs Florida. I have never been to the state where old people go for warmth. Do they have well-lit rooms down there for artists who retired but still want to paint as well as keep warm?

I don't think Florida has our beautiful New England trails covered in fall leaves, but honestly, my perfect fall season only lasted a couple of weeks. It is already much too cold out. Today, I will skip my brisk walk around Covered Bridge and I won't be hearing the crunch of autumn leaves in the park. I guess I won't reach my goal of 10,000 steps again until the spring.

I don't know if I could embrace Florida living. Norman has relatives and friends who migrated south with the birds and he flies down to visit them regularly. These people seem to love living there. Problem is, I do not want to be so far away from my children. I need to feel the warmth of their hugs, not just hear their voices over a phone. If I could uproot my whole family and take them with me, I would live there. I guess. I've never been there. How do I know I want to live there?

Next week, we fly down to Dave's neighborhood along with the rest of New Jersey. We'll be staying in Aunt Elke's place and I'll find out if this lifestyle could be for me. I am excited to visit with Delmi, Dave, Doris, Joel and Aunt Sonia. I hope I like Florida, but I'm still not moving there.

So I say.

The jackpot for the lottery is way up there, into the billions. I don't need a billion dollars. That would come with way too much responsibility. A couple of million would do the trick. I would pay off our bills, invest the rest in our children and our future, and happily buy a home in Florida to escape the frigid temperatures. I would also buy a home in the Berkshires where I could "summer" like rich artists do... and keep my home in Jersey where I can enjoy a hug from my children. Three homes. That's my dream.

Buy a lottery ticket because you have to be in it to win it.
What do you do to keep warm?

What's in a Name?

Two friends, four names.
Norman is Leo and Teddy is Buber. 

If Norman makes a reservation at a restaurant, he always puts it under the name of Leo. His friends call him Leo, Buck and all sorts of other names I wouldn't know or care to repeat. He was Dean Levine at school and Stormin' Norman at camp. My husband has many handles, as do his many friends, Buber, Whitey, Shakes, Doodles, ponytail Richie and Chuckles.

His parents gave him the name of Norman. No middle name or anything, just Norman. I think he actually likes his name. He has a collection of Norm's Beer and Wine coasters, Norm's Body Shop T-shirts and other cool Norm finds. He is pleased to be included in the Norm clubs of the world.

So why does everyone call him Leo? I think it stands for Let's Eat Out, from the days before he met me. My husband does enjoy a good clementine. Perhaps his nickname actually stands for Let's Eat Oranges. All I know is that if some random person calls out, "Leo," Norman will answer.

Choosing just the right name for a child, or even a dog, could be quite an ordeal. We rescued Murray when he was a stray pup in need of a home. He did not come with a name and I would call him Barney for no good reason. I call all dogs Barney. For his official name, we thought of athletes from Norman's favorite teams and even had a dog tag printed with the name of Mookie.

Our little rescue dog enjoys running after a tennis ball so we eventually settled on the name of Murray, in honor of Andy Murray and Norm's good friend Murray Shabat who loves tennis. We did not realize at the time that the real Murray was not a dog lover. My dog is now named after a man who hates dogs. Oh well, I rarely call him that anyway. To me, he is still Barney or Barnes 'n Nobles or Barney Rubble (Fred's friend), and sometimes when I am really mad at him, he is Mr. Murray. My confused furball will answer to anything if there is a cookie in my hand.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
-Juliet

Good old Billy Shakespeare had the right idea. A name does not define us. Murray would still be the greatest pet in the world, even if he wore his Mookie necklace. And my husband would still be the best dad in the world, even if his mom decided to call him Mookie Levine. I don't know if I would have married a Mookie. Our camp friend Barry married a Cookie. Now that's a different story.

I listened to the Goop podcast yesterday on my walk with Murray. Gwenyth Paltrow was interviewing Stella McCartney. It was an interesting conversation between two very good friends. They have both lived a life of privilege and they admit that easily. Is that why Gwenyth felt empowered enough to name her daughter, Apple and her son, Moses? Apple's godmother is Stella McCartney and grandmother is Blythe Danner. I am sure there are scores of other privileged people with better sense who could have advised Gwenyth on a name. Yet her teenager goes by the name of a fruit and the mention of the girl in her mom's podcast just made me hungry.

My mother decided to call me Barbara Hope after her dear departed Uncle Barney and Uncle Henry. Somewhere in the archives of birth certificates, there is another form filled out for me under the alias of Suzanne Helene. I guess it was more important for her to honor Uncle Barney than it was Uncle Sam, so my name was changed. At home, Yiddish words sprinkled into our conversations and my grandmother was fluent in the language. So I was also known by my Yiddish name, Basha Hannah.

My brother used to call his annoying little sister, The Human Dud, but to this day, he still affectionately refers to me as Bashie. Like my dog, I will answer to anyone with a vegan/gluten free cookie in their hand.

People can opt out of their given names. My dad was born as Reuben and officially modernized it to Robert at some point in his life. My grandmother was born as Rebecca and changed it to Reda to sound more American once she came off the boat. I like the more traditional names. At least my relatives did not become a fruit or a vegetable.

Framed and signed as BLevine '18

I just signed my latest dog painting. I always sign my work as BLevine. It is not because I don't want to include my first name, or I am hiding the fact that I am female, as artists and writers did in the past. I like my name and I am proud to be a woman. You might call me Barb or 'Hey You,' but I am not a Bobbie or a Babs like Ms. Streisand. I am also not a Barbie as in Ken's girlfriend or like a Playboy bunny. I sign my name B because it has fewer letters to paint and over the years it has simply become my signature.

Our friend Buber (aka Theodore, Ted, or Teddy) calls me B. That works too. If you are looking for a pet portrait I will accept a new commission by any name you like. Call me.

The Tides of Change

Katie and Murray in my daughter's bedroom before she moved out.
I cried for days when the room changed and it was no longer her room.

I am not that great with change. Change can be scary and definitely not for the meek at heart, like me.

My daughter has a physical reaction to the change in temperature. The shifting of the seasons is always heralded with a rash on her legs. Doctors have tried to give her a textbook diagnosis over the years along with some soothing ointment, but her body simply reacts to a dramatic change in a thermometer reading. When temperatures settle down, so does my daughter.

Global warming, otherwise known as scientific evidence branded as a hoax by our President, means that winter could very well be an unseasonably hot one, or we could have a pile of snow to shovel before Halloween. Both have happened in recent years, Mr. President. I have to dress in clothing meant for all four seasons in one outfit so I can strip down if it gets too hot or bundle into another sweater when I get cold. I refuse to blame it on my "changes." I'm done with that, thank heavens. Mother Earth is now going through her changes and the man we put in charge withdrew from the Paris Climate Agreement with as much lack of concern as he does for all for women, even for the one that gives him a home. My daughter has a powerful voice when it comes to women's rights and she empathizes with the tears of Mother Earth by suffering the consequences of a climate change all season long and not just on the equinox.

I apologize for that rant, but my reaction to change is not so much a physical thing, it is a mental attack. I fight my way through every level of change, even if it means I'm going in a good direction. Every time my computer software changes to a new version, I scream at the monitor. Every time my phone updates, I scream at the phone. I was once a fan of technology. Now I just feel old and it's getting harder to keep up with the change.

Teachers at my school facing another change in the schedule

I am one of those people who waits until a trend has been popular for at least two years before buying the newest style of anything. I like to shop for classics, just like those mom jeans I wore before I was a mom and now I can proudly wear again. At least, I think they are back in style.

In my art class, I used to introduce abstract art to my 3rd graders with a story about a hat. I would pick a volunteer (someone who enjoyed playing the clown) and told the class to imagine there was a big, ugly hat on his or her head. The hat was a hideous color and had pockets all over the top. The giggles aimed at my brave model told me what I already knew, that even kids are afraid to accept a new trend if it means being the source of embarrassment. I explained that my model could come to school without carrying a backpack. There was room for a water bottle in her hat, textbooks, a binder, cute pockets for pens, and hooks for keychains that made them look like cool earrings. I would say that my model wore her hat proudly to school for days and finally her best friend asked her mom to find out where she could get one too. Eventually, backpacks became a thing of the past and Ranney School designed their own big hat in blue and white with the school logo on the front.

Who would want to hang a Jackson Pollock over their couch when the Mona Lisa is what art means to the world? It took years for abstract art to become accepted as real art and for museums to display the modern pieces in their galleries. I also transition slowly. I resist the tides of change, even in something I identify with, such as art. I like to watch the spread of acceptance before it becomes okay for me to follow. I know that about me.

The problem is, Mother Earth does not have much time. We are destroying our forests, our wildlife, and the fragile balance that exists between species. The year can no longer be defined as having just four seasons and entire cities are being wiped out with powerful storms. The world is changing whether we are prepared to accept that as fact or not. Do you think the President is happy when his apps update and he can't tweet the same way he did the day before?

Maybe change can be a good thing.

This is us

This is Norm and this is Sam.
My kids have no problem knowing who their real father is.

Thank goodness for Youtube, Netflix, and Hulu. These channels were created for people like me who suddenly have time to catch up on shows everyone else watched on television.

I am now up to Episode 15 of This is Us (Season one) and still going strong. I'd love to go back in time to the last couple of Emmy's and see the actors win their awards now that I know who they are.

Zach laughed at me because I would text him while I was watching the show. "I get it!!," I wrote at the very beginning. "Kevin, Randall, and Kate are the triplets!" Now it seems obvious, but how brilliant was the realization when it first hit? Flashbacks explain everything, just as they do in real life.

This is us

Now that Zach is engaged, I can't help but remember my son as a little boy, how gentle and protective he was with his brother and sister, and how those qualities have stayed with him as a man. I am sure those precious memories will play through my mind in a confusing, out of order video on the day of his wedding, just as they do in the show. This is my son, my family. This is us.

Every time Sam slips on his crooner's hat and sings a Sinatra tune, he takes us all back to another time. Sam loves the same music and the same hats as his father does and as Chuck enjoyed before him. It must be a Levine gene or something. Music and memories all float through our minds like the storylines do in the show. History repeats itself in my family as I would suspect it does in all families. This is Sam's legacy and he wears it well under a distinguished looking hat.

Years ago, Katie stepped out of Sylvan Lake, dripping wet and as glorious as Bo Derek. Katie will always be a ten. Anyway, I overheard someone say that Katie is so much more beautiful than either of her parents. Of course, I was pleased. Any compliment meant for my children is a compliment given to me. Then, I realized I was just duly insulted. That's okay, I would hope Katie is better looking than I ever was. My daughter has inherited the best of both sides of her family, and she carries her ancestry proudly. With the photos she scanned into the computer and the VCR tapes she transferred to Youtube, we can now thank her for having our memories treasured for life. This is us, saved somewhere in the cloud.

This is Us is a show that portrays the evolution of a family tied together through many different moments. Our family has its memories too and here is one from 1960. Please enjoy this scene of Peter beating up his older brother, Norman, and their dad enjoying his boys.