Last night, I got revved up after two hours of conversing with Beth to whom I last spoke when I was about 15 years old. Back then in the suburbs of Denver, in a tightly knit Jewish community, her family curiously mirrored mine. She had an exceptionally kind Jewish pharmacist dad (who she described as having saved her life...ditto) and a smart crazy mom who was as harsh, controlling, and unfiltered as my mother. Beth was one of my older sister’s frenemies, and I always liked and admired her, especially her intelligence.
Recently, I have been reconnecting with people from my past and these encounters have blown me away by their richness and resonance. I am energized by lively exchanges with my complicated and self aware Jewish peers. I like learning about their life trajectories and marvel at how unchanged they are, and also how consistent I am — still the creative intellectual queer funny hippy athlete that Beth and others remember me as being.
My friends’ lives have turned out to be well lived, not always easy, after all, our Ashkenazi genes have occasionally brought us to our knees; high achievers, anxious and intense, we all keep moving forward with our critical and questioning minds.
I love hurtling into the present without missing a beat — because what connected us back then somehow connects us now. I feel fluid and light as a time traveler, vibrating with a feeling of authenticity and continuity. Time compresses, converges, and expands in these conversations that cover so much ground; yet we plant ourselves in the soil of what matters most to us— our families; our work; our passions.
Maybe this is a bonus of growing old, to have the time to engage in the art of reflective connection. My dad modeled this magnificently. He used to pick up the phone, talk deeply to his childhood friend Al, or his college roommate Hank, or the ex-detective Rick, he played tennis with in his early 50’s. He held his people close over his lifetime. He always asked me who I stayed in touch with, implying that I would greatly benefit from doing so. He was right.
Beth, a MIT educated Radiologist, it turns out, lives in the South Bay with her Ophlamologist Pickle ball playing husband of thirty five years. (Since I have just taken up the sport myself I hope to wrangle an invitation to play on their court — yes, oddly enough they have one). She has 3 grown kids who have challenged her considerably but now that their brains have developed they seem to doing quite well. She just sold her medical practice, works part time because she loves doctoring, and hikes, bikes, and travels. When she tells me that she still loves to ski, I tell her we are definitely going! She wants to write a few books, one about choosing medical professionals and the other a memoir. I talk about my writing practice and coaching and encourage her to make time for writing as I sense that this woman has some great stories to publish.
“Even now when I see my mother she tells me that I look horrible with no makeup and she wants to drag me into Nordstrom’s to buy decent clothes. She is profoundly disappointed in me,” Beth confides. “Oh Beth, I’m sorry, “ I say. “My mom’s dementia in many ways made her nicer, but she was so mean and judgmental. Clearly, none of her daughters met her expectations. Oh well. Not our problem.”
We laugh, intimate with this brand of inflicted damage, and we agree to share mother/daughter, and pharmacist father stories when we get together, which I hope will be soon.
“There was a pill in my family for everything,” Beth remembered and I told her about the huge garbage bags full of drugs we removed from my parent’s house when my dad died. And then we were off talking for another half hour. Honestly, I don’t know how we managed to get off the phone call.
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