Magic and Memories

It had been about 17 years since my last visit to Disneyland and at least 20 since I worked my last shift at the park. And so I was certain that the years had beaten the Disney vitality out of me. Moreover, I had seen more than my fair share of emptiness and loss over the past 18 months. Though I had been looking forward to bringing my children to Disneyland for years, I expected that we would simply enjoy a day at the park, nothing more.

I never should have discounted the magic.

The moment we started walking down Main Street the memories of my youth came flooding back: pranks pulled on cast-member friends, games played with (sometimes adorable and sometimes annoying) park guests, teenage romances with ride operators and parking lot attendants. My heart lightened and I grew younger with each step. My six-year-old twins could hardly keep up.

My sons and I spent the morning in Tomorrowland, giving rides like Buzz Lightyear’s Astro Blaster, Star Tours, and the new-and-improved Autopia a whirl. Noah took special delight at helping Buzz fight the evil Zurg, and Ben memorized nearly every joke that flashed on the LCD screen at Autopia. We were all especially fond of the one about the car crossing the road to give the chicken a break. It was just the kind of joke, I thought, that could have been written or told by any of the characters who kept us in stitches back stage in between sets. I found myself searching crowds and attraction lines for their faces, craving the witty, sarcastic, Monty Python-esque humor and familiar voices from long ago.

Though there were those instances when my memories intruded on our fun, the day most assuredly belonged to the boys. They dragged me from Tomorrowland to Critter Country for a glimpse of Ben’s hero, Tigger, through New Orleans Square for a tour of the Haunted Mansion, and over to the Fantasy Princess Faire via Thunder Ranch Pass (where I couldn’t help but laugh at the “West Ward Ho” refreshment kiosk, knowing full well that somewhere backstage the cast members were wondering who that days’ West Ward Ho’ would be!) But it was at the Fantasy Princess Faire where the days’ best memories were made.

By the time we reached the Princess Faire Theatre my feet were weary and the boys were ready for a break. I wasn’t certain that a princess locale was really the best place for us to rest, though I needn’t have worried. Ben took to the venue like a fish in water (because, let’s face it, Ben is going to be a princess when he grows up!) and even Noah’s attention was occupied by the plastic rocks and scenery that became the perfect fodder for climbing, sliding, and jumping.

The boys were so busy that they hadn’t noticed Prince Phillip approach. But soon they were all engaged in a conversation and royal game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. During the entertainment prior to the start of the Royal Coronation Training Show, the pageant helpers indulged Ben by letting him lead a game of “Ben Says” (“Ben says ‘have a sword fight!’ “Ben says “lift weights!’) and finally after the show, we were treated to a private meeting with Cinderella. My sons were in awe and still have no idea how very lucky they were to have been singled out for those privileges. As for me, it mattered less whether the events were orchestrated by an old friend or by pure circumstance: that single hour showed my sons more magic and splendor than I could have shown them in a lifetime of visits.

Though the boys quickly grew tired of the long lines, they were mesmerized by the magical performances: an exciting parade replete with characters on arched stilts and performing bungee-cord acrobatics (and a float that broke down just inches before the route ended!); a spectacular lights show on the Rivers of America that combined water screens with real parade “floats” and live character action (and holy-mother-of-all-that-is-good-did-you-see-how-high-and-how-quickly-Ursula-was-raised-during-that-pyrotechnic-stunt???); and a fireworks show that finally made full use of Tinkerbell’s talents all the while celebrating the music of, uh, Disneyland park attractions. (Okay guys, seriously, countless movie and television show soundtracks to work with, and you’re going with the music from theme park attractions? Really???)

Still the performances were magnificent. Though I could imagine how over the top the ideas might have seemed during a WDI brainstorming session, I was reminded of the Disney Way that makes everything possible. Every move and minute was perfectly executed, every action precisely and spectacularly planned. It made me proud to have once been a part of that vision, and for an instant I longed for the days when my friends and I danced anonymously down the center of Main Street U.S A.

We made it back to the car at 11 p.m. and we were home about 30 minutes later. As I tucked my beautiful boys into bed for the night, Noah looked up at me and said sleepily, “Mom, today was the best day ever.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

My breasts are stupid...

...Actually, my doctor called them "dense." But I think she was just being politically correct.

For those of you coming late to the game, I had my first mammogram last week and was called less than a day later to come back in for "further diagnostic testing." After more fondling than I've gotten from all previous boyfriends and lovers put together, it's been determined that the nation's threat level can go back down to orange. Nothing to see here, folks...move along.

There was a small cyst on my right side which became transparent under further compression, and there are microscopic calcifications throughout both breasts. All of this is indicative of fibro-cystic breasts. Which is fairly normal and nothing to worry about. I don't need any further diagnostic testing. There will be no biopsy or other surgery, and my breasts will require no further attention this year (at least not medically!)

The doctor did say that, compared to women with "normal" breast tissue, women with fibro-cystic breasts are four times more likely to develop breast cancer over their lifetimes. Bummer, but not as bad as it could be since no one in my family has ever had breast or ovarian cancer. Still, the doctor was very clear that I must have a mammogram done once a year, every year, for the rest of my life.

So no matter what happens in my personal life I can count on being extensively felt up annually.

I'm cool with that.

Younger Than Springtime

A work acquaintance of mine told me today that her boss used to work with my dad.

I was stunned. Stunned that my colleague didn’t seem to remember that my father died just a few months ago, and stunned that I might work in the same building as someone who knew my father as a colleague.

“Really?” I asked her. “When did they work together?” She said she didn’t know, but that he told her he remembers when I was born.

I was deflated. “I was born in New York,” I told her, and so I doubted it was possible that this man might have known my father. Still, remembering the guy I recently met who grew up in the neighborhood across the Expressway from my family on Long Island, I knew that stranger things could happen.

And so I told my colleague:

“If he happens to mention it to you again, please ask him to come see me.” I would have to tell him that my father died in December.

Not more than 15 minutes later, Ed Munroe approached my office looking as if he were a funeral attendee. His face was pale and his body was doubled over as if he had been punched repeatedly in the stomach. I realized that my acquaintance had done the deed for me.

Looking at his face, I sensed immediately that he had, in fact, known my father. I invited him to have a seat and he said, “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. It’s unbelievable. He was so young.” And while “young” is certainly not a word I would have used to describe my father, I could tell that this man, who could have been about 10 or 15 years younger than Dad, had today come face to face with his own mortality.

“Yes, it was very unexpected,” I could hear myself say as we fought back collective tears.

“Your dad was a really nice guy,” Ed told me. “Always laughing. Really bright. Never had an unkind word to say about anyone.” It wasn’t the first time someone had shared these insights about Dad. A description of Dad that was so alien to me, it continues to bring tears to my eyes that I was never able to see that side of my father.

I asked Ed how he knew my dad, and Ed told me that "he and Myron worked together at the Edwards Cinema in Fountain Valley."

My face froze as I contemplated his words. And then I started to giggle.

Myron.

He worked with Myron.

My. Brother.

I explained to Ed the misunderstanding: he worked with my brother who, I assured him, was very much alive. We both had a great laugh about it and Ed’s face came back to life. He spent a few more minutes hearing an update about my brother and his family, and he was quickly on his way.

I called and emailed my brother, excited to share the hysterical narrative. I was still chuckling about it on my way home from work tonight, and when I recalled Ed’s comment to his employee that he remembers when I was born, my laughter became uncontrollable:

Myron’s daughter Kimberly was born when he worked at the theatre. Ed thought I was Kimberly, my 21-year-old niece!

Not bad for someone who turned 40 on Friday.

Progress is slow...

...but it's cases like these that give me hope:

College Discriminated Against Lesbian Couple, N.Y. Court Rules

Monroe Community College discriminated on the basis of sexual orientation when it denied health benefits to a lesbian employee’s partner, a New York appellate court ruled on Friday.

The court held that the college violated New York’s “marriage recognition law” by not recognizing the validity of the couple’s 2004 marriage in Canada, The New York Times reported. Just as New York employers honor heterosexual marriages that take place in other jurisdictions they must honor gay marriages, the ruling maintains.

“The Legislature may decide to prohibit the recognition of same-sex marriages solemnized abroad,” the five-judge panel of the Appellate Division of State Supreme Court stated in its ruling. “Until it does so, however, such marriages are entitled to recognition in New York.”

Lawyers for both sides agreed that the decision applied to all public and private employers in the state.

The plaintiff is Patricia Martinez, a word-processing supervisor at the college, who married Lisa Ann Golden in Ontario in 2004. Ms. Martinez sued Monroe Community College in 2006 after it denied the couple’s 2004 request for health benefits, but a New York Supreme Court justice dismissed the case.

The college begain providing providing benefits to the women in 2006 under a new contract. The appellate court’s ruling holds that Ms. Martinez is entitled to unspecified monetary damages for the period during which the benefits were denied.

The Times reported that it was unclear whether the college or Monroe County would appeal the ruling. —Don Troop

Cold

60 above zero:
Arizonians turn on the heat.
People in Iowa plant gardens.

50 above zero:
Californians shiver uncontrollably.
People in Cedar Rapids sunbathe.

40 above zero:
Italian & English cars won't start.
People in Iowa drive with the windows down.

32 above zero:
Distilled water freezes.
The water in Des Moines gets thicker.

20 above zero:
Floridians don coats, thermal underwear, gloves, wool hats.
People in Iowa throw on a flannel shirt.

15 above zero:
New York landlords finally turn up the heat.
People in Iowa have the last cookout before it gets cold.

0
People in Miami all die.
Iowans close the windows.

10 below zero:
Californians fly away to Mexico
People in Iowa get out their winter
coats.

25 below zero:
Hollywood disintegrates.
The Girl Scouts in Iowa are selling cookies door to door. (True!)

40 below zero:
Washington DC runs out of hot air.
People in Iowa let the dogs sleep indoors.

100 below zero:
Santa Claus abandons the North Pole.
Iowa get upset because they can't start the Mini-Van.

460 below zero:
ALL atomic motion stops (absolute zero on the Kelvin scale.)
People in Iowa start saying..."Cold 'nuff fer ya?"

500 below zero:
Hell freezes over.
Iowa public schools will open 2 hours late.

Lion's Cub

One of the first lessons my father taught me about my family is the meaning of our last name. In Hebrew, he told me, “Gurien” means “Lion's cub.” I suppose that Dad wanted us to embrace the meaning of our name because of the vision and values it represented. Being a lion’s cub meant that we were in line to rule our kingdom: to be leaders and trailblazers, to command and demand the dignity afforded us by the status he presumed for our family; to celebrate the natural laws that determined our "regal" and "stately" fates.

Dad expected my brothers and me to live the lives of lions. We were to be chieftains and innovators. His constant hope for us was that we would never be satisfied with "good enough." When we earned the highest grade on an exam, Dad wanted to know why we didn't get a perfect score. When we started our first jobs, Dad wanted to know when we expected to earn a promotion. It wasn't that Dad wasn't satisfied with our accomplishments. You could read the pride on his face even as he drove our ambition. But it was clear that Dad had a vision for his family: he expected that, as lion's cubs, we would someday be revered by others in his community. Dad wanted to make certain that we were worthy of, and deserving of, that respect.

Dad was enamored with hierarchy and status. He was a Cohen--the Hebrew tribe descending from Aaron that became the Temple High Priests--and he wore that membership as a badge. He identified his lineage to any rabbi with whom he spoke and he made certain he knew the regulations that his priestly affiliation bore upon him. But Dad's pride in his tribal membership had nothing to do with being regaled as "supreme" among the Jewish community. From Dad's point of view, being a "High Priest" meant a certain moral obligation that he had to the Jewish community. Like a lion defending his pride, Dad was vigilant in upholding Jewish traditions.

I suspect that it was in part because of this perception that Dad took it upon himself to defend the entire Jewish community against persecution. When I was a child, Dad once wreaked havoc in my grade school because the school cafeteria was adorned with Christmas trees and decorations, and with nary a hint of Hanukkah. Dad stormed into the principal's office, shouting cries of anti-Semitism and threatening to call the Anti Defamation League. No sooner had the school administration soothed my father's rage than were silver and blue Hanukkah decorations hung along-side the Christmas ones. And this was just the beginning. Over the years, Dad sent my brothers and me to private school because he feared the anti-Semitic math teacher in the public middle school who dared to give my older brother a "C" on his report card. When I got a call-back for a Civil Light Opera play, Dad wouldn't let me go because the audition was held on the second night of Passover, and when I graduated high school he wouldn't let his valedictorian daughter attend the senior class convocation event because it was to be held in a church. Dad's antics in defense of his religious beliefs continued throughout his life, in fact, to just a few weeks ago. And though my brothers and I would want to run and hide any time Dad went on one of his binges, it was simply because he demanded that his family be treated with the same respect and dignity as others, and that we be allowed to cherish and celebrate our heritage publicly. Though he often drove us to tears, Dad's intention was simply to ensure that his lion cubs were equal in the eyes of the community.

Lions and their cubs didn't design the laws of nature--they didn't choose to be "kings of the jungle"--yet they are bound by forces beyond their control to obey them. Likewise, Dad adhered staunchly to the tenets of his faith and he indoctrinated his young cubs accordingly. At the dinner table, Dad put us through the drills: Which prayers are said during Hanukkah? What do Jews believe about heaven and hell? Which animals are kosher? As young children, Dad would ask us, "What will happen to you if you marry a non-Jew?" We would dutifully respond, "You will disown us and write us out of the family." Dad would smile in approval. He made it clear that while he didn't write the rules it was nonetheless incumbent upon us to honor them.

And yet...

When it comes to self-preservation, lions can defy the laws of nature. There have been instances where a lion would actually place itself in peril, extend its own neck in submission, and choose its own death rather than sacrifice the lives of its cubs. So too with Dad. When it came to choosing between the laws of nature and preserving family, Dad always chose his family. When his sons married the women they loved--even though the women were not Jewish--Dad moved heaven and earth to welcome them into our family. When the Hassidic parochial school refused to allow me the honor of reading from the Torah for my Bat-Mitzvah, Dad risked his own ostracism and my expulsion (which I myself would have preferred!) by joining an egalitarian synagogue so that I could learn to read and recite the liturgy. Time and again my father turned laws of nature on its head: where his family was concerned, no rule, no law, no commandment took precedence. He fought against his own natural urges and tendencies and was willing to embrace living in contradiction. And it was in these actions that Dad, our lion king, earned the respect and recognition of his cubs.

On December 2 of this year, Dad woke with a terrible headache. Moments later he collapsed to the floor from a massive stroke, never to regain consciousness. Yet his body lingered long enough for his cubs to gather and pay homage. Though we have yet to achieve the leadership status of Dad's ambition, we each represent a fierce independence and a forceful passion bent to see Dad's family thrive. And though none of us observe or celebrate my father's Jewish traditions, we strove to ensure that his medical care followed the letters of the laws he held so dear. Dad's rabbi was present to help my brothers pray over my father's body and even I acquiesced when that rabbi informed me that my prayer contributions would be meaningless in the eyes of Dad's God. We explained the required religious behaviors and procedures to the nurses, and while not a single one of us understood the logic or the rationale, this community of strangers helped us to ascertain that Dad's body was shown the reverence and deference that he demanded in his life.

But like Dad bending and ignoring rules that threatened the sanctity of his family, there were limits to how far his cubs could go. Hassidic Jewish tradition requires that once a body is kept alive on life support, such intervention must be continued until the body expires on its own. Yet my brothers, mother, and I could endure my father's suffering only for so long. He was, undeniably, brain dead but still his heart beat on. Our gentle nudges and strokes would not wake him from his slumber and it was clear that we would have to make the decision that would require love for Dad to prevail over religious doctrine. Caregivers surrounded us, insulating us from the passage of time, from outside events, and from cleric strangers who demanded that they knew better than we my father's wishes. Practitioners offered a berth wide enough to allow us to do what needed to be done.

As we removed the thorn from my father's paw our hearts tore in agony, our bodies seared with pain, and our souls wretched with grief. Moments later, Dad passed peacefully. Though his time had come far too soon, Dad died as he lived: with dignity and with respect.

Dinner at the White House

Israeli leader Ehoud Olmert comes to Washington for meetings with George W. For the State Dinner, Laura Bush decides to bring in a special Kosher Chef and have a truly Jewish meal prepared in honor of their guest. At the dinner that night, the first course is served and it is Matzoh Ball Soup. George W. looks at this and, after learning what it is called, he tells an aide that he can't eat such a gross and strange-looking brew. The aide says that Mr Olmert will be insulted if he doesn't at least taste it. Not wanting to cause any trouble (after all he ate a sheep's eye in honor of his Arab guests), George W gingerly lowers his spoon into the bowl and retrieves a piece of matzoh ball and some broth. He hesitates, swallows, and a grin appears on his face. He finds he really likes it, digs right in, and finishes the whole bowl.

"That was delicious," he says to Olmert. "Do the Jews eat any other part of the matzoh, or just the balls?"