Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog

My father’s memoir started with two simple declarative sentences: “This is my first attempt to bring together the many incidents of my life, which may be dull and boring to everyone. However, my children or my grandchildren may see or appreciate a bit of humor or relate a piece of my experience to their own lives.”

The pages my father gave me told of his childhood – the constant moving around all over upstate New York, the sometimes less than savory places he lived in and less than exemplary (though very colorful and unforgetable) characters he encountered during his tumultuous growing-up years.

He talked about the hotels his family occupied – in New Hartford and Herkimer – two-story rambling wood structures with wide verandahs and extra rooms above, which my grandmother rented out by the week. Or sometimes by the hour – if you get my drift.

I read the pages with hunger  – hoping to catch a glimpse of the long lost little boy who grew up to be the man I called Daddy – hoping also to catch a glimpse of the illusive, fleeting, fuzzy, half-formed image I had of the woman he used to call Mother – my paternal grandmother.

Her given name was Ida Telsey and I learned that she loved cats and and filled her home with many of those furry wonders. She also suffered from terrible asthma, which ultimately led to her premature death at age 46. No one in those days ever made the connection.

I learned that she spent long hours talking and gossiping on the phone with her sister Esther – to the constant chagrin of her children.

I learned that she was soft spoken, well bred, and acknowledged to be the smartest of all her siblings. But all four of her brothers, not she and not her sister, were sent off to college and became prosperous professionals. Their children took tennis lessons and later – following in their fathers’ footsteps –  went on to attend either Harvard or Cornell. Her children played stick ball, wore hand-me-downs from their rich cousins and sold homebaked pies door-to-door to earn pocket money.

I learned that my grandmother was as calm and gentle as my grandfather was coarse and bawdy. And that my father, in many ways, took after his more cerebral mother. He wrote the poem that the principal choose to commemorate the closing of his school – Union Street Elementary School:

         The portals of Union School will close
         And lie alone in sweet repose
         Throughout the years it gave its best
         And now Old Union deserves a rest.

I hope Grandma Ida was proud of her clever little boy.

My grandmother bore four children – one daughter and three sons. She never lived to see any grandchildren. She never lived to attain economic security nor did she enjoy marital harmony or good health. My father’s biggest regret is that his success came too late to help his mother.

I reluctantly put the pages down and drove to school to pick up one of my grandsons from soccer practice. I figured, if asked, I’d explain away my red eyes and wet cheeks with a casual remark about peeling onions.

My grandson didn’t notice my eyes or cheeks – he was too preoccupied with wolfing down the brownies I had brought him.  It’s probably for the best. After all, how do you explain to a 9 year-old that you are crying for a grandmother that you never knew – a woman who died without ever knowing the void she would create in the life of the little girl who carried her name?

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement in Judaism, ended at sunset last night. Always in the past, I was focused on seeking forgiveness from others. This year I decided to seek forgiveness from myself. 
This involves a variety of steps: 

Reflecting on my actionsBeing accountable for any harm done to myself by myself – instead of just uttering, “Oh, well!” and leaving it at thatWorking actively on self-improvement

By emphasizing the above intentions, I hope to make great strides towards spiritual renewal in the new Jewish year of 5786.
Time will tell.
 
I get very discouraged when I am too busy. It’s not stemming from a fear of falling behind, but it is a feeling that I need to utilize every second of my waking time to accomplish what needs to be done. That is exhausting. 
AND, I don’t take into account regard for actual deadlines. This is an energy zapper. I’m shifting focus. 
My new mantra: 

I AM GRATEFUL THAT I HAVE 
SUCH A FULL AND INVIGORATING LIFE. 
I WILL PRIOITIZE MY TO-DO LIST.

 
I’m going to review my ever-burgeoning to-do list.
I am going to pick four top-priority items that beg immediate attention. 
I am going to do them and save the rest for another day.
 
When another techy challenge pops-up – like my paying Uber twice for the same ride – I will pivot from previous self-destructive behavior. I will not throw a tirade. I will not yell out loud, “Why does this always happens to me??!!”  
 
Instead, I will investigate how to fix it. 
I will write down the solution so the next time it happens (and it WILL), I will know how to constructively deal with it.
 
I will recognize that learning new things is hard, but staying stagnant and stuck in old ways is not an option.
I will recognize that ingesting mouse bites of knowledge leads to sustained progress over time. 

I will master using a Cricut machine.I will open an Etsy Shop.I will learn Canva.I will look into what a sublimation printer is.

Just not all at once.
Just not all in the same day.
 
I am letting go of the destructive mindset that I didn’t get enough knowledge and know-how packed into the day. 
I will concentrate on progress made.
How? 
By writing a journal entry at the close of each day documenting exactly what I have learned in the prior 24 hours.  
 

 
Yom Kippur was both a profound and solemn day, culminating in a lovely meal to break the food fast of the last 24 hours. I was in the company of two of my five sons, two of my three daughters-in-law, five of my eight grandchildren and one of my daughters-in-law’s moms.
And what was the most salient fact I learned? 
That some days it’s more beneficial to just bask in the goodness of life and save mastering new endeavors for the following day. 
It was a good start to a productive AND kind-to-myself New Year.
 
May we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for another year. 
May we all continue to Preserve Our Blooms,

I’m very excited – I have coined a new term: LIFE SNAGS.

It was birthed this past week from my sheer craziness of flying-off the handle each time I was confronted with a minor situation not to my liking. I would prefer to think of myself as a person who copes, but you would have never known that if you witnessed my emotional, high-pitched reaction to every “life snag” that came my way.



The definition of a snag is a problem or obstacle that hinders progress.

I have had plenty of those in the last few days:

My Airline Woes:     I cancel a airline reservation and it doesn’t go through. (Okay, things like that happen occasionally.)
     Due to a snafu, I am assigned a middle seat, not a window seat that I strongly prefer, on a recent flight. (Poor, poor me.)
     I cycle through four different airline agents over a three-hour period in an attempt to transfer airline miles to my husband’s account – a procedure that usually is seamless and takes but a few minutes. (Poor, poor, poor me.) 

My Pest Control Woes:      My friendly, reliable pest control technician comes by for his monthly service and lets out a huge yelp when spraying behind our gazebo. In hearing distance on the porch, I call out if all is okay.
     “Kinda,” he replies. “I just saw a large rat scurry away!”
     My stomach flip-flops as bitter bile rises upward in my throat.
     “What?” I screech. “Are you kidding me?”
     “Nope,” he replies with the utmost seriousness.
     That little chat cost me a pretty penny as I hastily agreed to have four rodent boxes installed in my yard, guaranteed to keep those threatening rodents away from our yard.
     Afterward, a wave of Buyer’s Remorse hits me.
     Was he lying?
     Was he exaggerating?
     Was he just play acting so I’d spend a hefty sum and he would get a commission?

That’s how we think nowadays. My hasty reaction and my unkind, suspicious thoughts were quite unsettling and upsetting.

My Life Snags, nowadays, are routinely followed by my throwing a temper tantrum, coupled with a slew of tears streaming down both cheeks, messing with my very carefully applied mascara.
 
This is MY THEORY: The world is in turmoil. The craziness, the uncertainly, the randomness of tragedy engulfs us. I would have taken all of these life snags in stride years ago – maybe even months ago. But no more.

Each minor annoyance, each added irritation, only adds to my fully fueled, excessively sensitive state of anxiety. I over-react, exhaust myself, try to calm myself before the next onslaught of life snags descends on me.

My reaction level is in a perpetually very high gear. And I realize chaos and uncertainly is our new reality and each of us needs to find healthy ways to deal with it. We need to adapt to the new world order of constant flux, constant chaos and mayhem.

Sure we can practice mindfulness. We can limit our news consumption, cultivate gratitude for the blessings in our life, establish routines and make and maintain personal rituals. But how can we make a difference – how can we contribute somehow to positive change?

We can start by educating ourselves on the issues that matter to us and make an effort to understand the complexities of those issues. 

And we can advocate for change:

Stop attacking each other and listen,Write our elected officials,Support those candidates whose values align with our own, Participate in rallies,Use social media responsibly to express our opinions. We can practice kindness, show consideration, be helpful to friends, family and neighbors.And we can hope that “this too will pass” and calmer days will prevail.

 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Every time I thought about my husband’s my upcoming 60th high school reunion, I felt the beginning sting of tears.  

“Iris,” I sternly admonished myself, “for Heaven’s sake, get a grip!”

And now, days after two evening events filled with reminisces of the crazy things we did and the more responsible things we didn’t do, the tears are still flowing.

How do you sum up being with “the kids” you spent six intense years with – not even counting the ones you met in kindergarten and first grade?

Surreal. Déjà vu. Incomparable.

I know I wax ridiculously nutso over my high school cronies. But I did re-meet my husband at our 10th high school reunion so I’m a bit sentimental about reunions in general.

And I know many think it’s a little wacko, but I feel very strongly about my classmates:
     Protective
     Proud 
     Immensely affectionate 
     And so happy to be in their presence 

For example, at some point during the evening, I spilled Coke all over my white jean jacket and a buddy pulled me aside, whipped out a Tide stick and painstakingly dotted every splattered mark of cola on the bottom half of my jacket.

We take care of each other. 

We have lost parents, siblings, children and other classmates, but we don’t let those losses stop us. We come together. We ask questions and we listen. 

I can’t recall what people were wearing.

I can’t recall – except for one person – anyone bragging about their kids’ accomplishments or their own personal net worth.

It was more like:
     Remember when…. ?
     How’s your pickleball game? 
     When are you coming to visit? 

We didn’t talk politics.

We didn’t talk the next big thing coming down the pike. 

We didn’t even focus that much on health issues – which was my biggest fear.

All was going exceedingly well until I felt a resurgence of two emotions I hadn’t felt in such full force since junior high school: 
Insecurity 
and
Jealousy 

I pull one of my “besties” aside and began to explain. “See Steven sitting in that almost empty room over there? Well, he’s not alone! He is chatting animatedly with someone he didn’t even know in high school.” 

I pause dramatically. “And, he did the same thing last night with her!”

Part of me is horrified by my runaway emotions – absolutely shocked at their intensity. I felt the agonizing pain of teenage angst wash all over me again: having pimples, feeling awkward and hiding my hairy legs because my mom wouldn’t let me shave them. 

I wonder out loud to my “bestie” but she doesn’t really give me an answer to my two question: 
     How long is he going to be talking to her?
     And what in the hell are they talking about?

Yet, there is a part of me that is jubilant that I still have those intense feelings for my husband at my age of 78 and having been married to him for 49 years.

And then those past uncomfortable feelings recede as I see  my husband (finally) emerge from the room and catch my eye. He bounds happily up to me. And in that moment, I don’t take his love, his loyalty and his faithfulness for granted.

The second evening of the Class of “65 being together is quickly coming to a close. 

I have watched – entranced – as a classmate with cognitive decline dances flawlessly with his wife. 

I have watched as my classmates with walkers expertly maneuver them throughout the maze of chairs and tables dotting our party space. 

The Class of ’65:
     We grew up 
     We struggled 
     We triumphed 
     We overcame 
     We endured 

And WE SHOWED UP – with our protruding bellies, receding hair lines, not quite so steady balance and not quite as stunning cleavage.

For those two evenings we were surrounded by 80 people who were as familiar to us as our own kids’ and grandkids’ faces – where we just kinda basked in each other’s presence – where looking around was just like being suffused in one giant HUG.

I had one very comforting thought as Steven and I walked to our car after the final goodbyes. I recalled that someone early in the evening had casually mentioned we should get together to celebrate our 80th birthdays in just two years. 

I’m holding that thought close. It’s simply another way of honoring the events that formed us, the people who molded us and the experiences that influenced us to live our lives the way we did. 

To the Class of ‘65 everywhere, I have one final message:
KEEP ON SHOWING UP

And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Most of you probably know by now The Story: one of my best buddies sent me a message about my 75th birthday present: “It’s something to wear and you are going to love it. Arriving shortly in the mail.”

Hmm, what could be so enticing as I inch closer and closer to age 80 and further and further from age 70: a gold studded thong? Pasties for my drooping boobs? I couldn’t come up with ANTHING even remotely captivating.

The much-anticipated package arrives.
I rip it open with wild enthusiasm.
I am not disappointed.
Wrapped in tissue is a dark blue jean jacket.
Not just ANY jean jacket….
My jean jacket is emblazoned on the back with a massive sequined hamsa.
I am hooked. 



That was three years ago. 
 
Here’s an update in poem form:
 
699 Jean jackets
I’ve got 699 jean jackets 
In a storage unit down the street
Hanging on multiple garment racks 
All labeled and sized and neat.
 
699 jean jackets 
Ready for patches 
And lace 
And letters
And pearl studs 
And braid 
And embroidery 
Embellishments galore 
699 jean jackets 
And I’m hoping to buy more.
 
It’s surely an addiction
based on my prediction
that upcycling 
will be the new rage. 
And those who now think I’m foolish
will soon regard me 
as a very wise sage.
 
My plan is eco friendly 
and kind to Mother Earth. 
I firmly believe 
my 699 jean jackets 
will soon prove their own worth. 
 
So I’m researching shops on Etsy
Setting up an engaging web site 
Dabbling in social media 
Convinced that I’m clever 
beyond measure 
and absolutely right.
 
I’ve sought out seamstresses 
and hired an admin too 
and learned how to take a payment 
when it’s totaled and due. 
 
Jackets are carefully curated, 
designed, enhanced and sized.
I’m ready for:
trunk shows and holiday markets 
private parties 
and orders customized.
 
I’ve got a logo.
I understand bogo.
I’m serious.
 
My new business is not a hobby. 
It’s a genuine enterprise. 
It will spew forth 
with a myriad of sensations.
It is named 
Funky Creations. 
And it will take all those naysayers
by surprise. 
 
My business plan is detailed, 
but my hopes and dreams quite clear.
This is what I’m envisioning
in the coming year:
From storage bin
to someone’s closet 
No longer solely mine 
Sold, paid for, delivered 
All 699!
 
My first real retail foray is tomorrow, Saturday, September 13th, at the Tampa Bay Women’s Expo.
 
Come Pamper Yourself for a Ladies Day Out!
Presented by The Tampa Bay Times, this Ladies Day Out will feature exhibits, interactive booths and education on a wide range of women’s interests –  fashion, travel, beauty and self-care. 

Free Admission. 
Click Here to Reserve Your Ticket

Date and Hours

Saturday, September 13, 2025
10a.m. – 3p.m.

Location 

Florida State Fairgrounds
4800 US 301
Tampa, FL 33610


    (PYB LLC DBA FUNKY CREATIONS)

My FUNKY CREATIONS booth will be showcasing one-of-a-kind jean jackets, vests and kids’ denim apparel. 
If you are in driving distance of Tampa, COME ON BY! 
GET FUNKY 
Tap into that wild woman inside you 
It just may be the beginning of 
a very rich and rewarding new chapter in your life
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Courtney was at a crossroads.

She had a choice when it came to how she approached her ever-present stuttering: Roll With It or Try to Fix it?

So Where Did Courtney Find Hope?

Her last-ditch efforts to face her speech issues and help herself climb out of her self-created basket of Hell came when she applied to The Successful Stuttering Management Program (Boot Camp for Stutterers) at age 20 and received a full scholarship to attend. She flew across country from Virginia to Cheney, Washington for three weeks of intense study. 

One of the key components of the program involved going up to strangers in a shopping mall, announcing to them that you stuttered and then asking them to complete a short survey. It sounded to me like a Massive Cringeworthy Experience – how could my niece possibly do this? I shuttered to think about her there.

In her own words, Courtney’s boot camp tale: 

The survey is four questions and should take around 2-3 minutes to get through. My first interview took me over 45 minutes. I remember choosing to stop a particular person because she “looked friendly” – whatever that means. The sun was setting and the evening chill was approaching. One by one, I read each word on the script. 

“My name is….” 

I hate my name. The harshness of the C gets me every time. The tension rises up in my throat, making it impossible to get any sound out. 

Finally I croak out, “Courtney and I am a stutterer working on my speech in speech therapy. Can I ask you a few questions about stuttering?”

“Sure,” she says casually, but can we sit down? I have a condition where I can’t stand for too long.”

We sit on the steps of a nearby hall. The questions came out easier than the initial ask, but the tension and shame remained. By now, the sun had set and the moon was emerging. I came to my final question: “What do you think a stutterer should do to overcome his/her stuttering?” 

Without missing a beat she said, “Nothing, you are perfect the way you are.”

After the interview, she told me she has a brain condition. Her doctors kept telling her she is going to die. She is not supposed to be living right now. I live in constant fear of speaking and she lives in constant fear of death. 

We said goodbye and she told me it was so great to meet me. I thanked her profusely for her time and patience. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes as we said goodbye – it was a look of encouragement, belief, and pure unabashed pride. There was no pity, no pretend empathy, no uncomfortable feelings or impatient stares. It’s a look that’s a rarity in the stuttering community – one we don’t encounter too often. 

The wind blew harder, but with a warm air I hadn’t felt before. I walked back to my dorm.

Talking to this person changed everything for me. It forced me to believe that it is okay to stutter. I don’t think I would have continued if I hadn’t received this response the first time I approached someone. It allowed me to keep going. 

Courtney’s experience at boot camp marked the beginning of her fully embracing the fact she stuttered.

“I now advocate learning to live with stuttering in a healthy way – an acceptance of sorts,” notes Courtney. “There is no cure for stuttering or no quick fix so we can’t shame people who don’t overcome their stuttering and who don’t become more fluent. It doesn’t mean they’re not trying. “

That realization, coupled with the support professionally and personally of those who stuttered too, allowed Courtney to emerge out of the depths of her isolation, manage her fears and participate fully in life.

Courtney is presently enrolled in a PhD program at New York University in Communicative Science and Disorders and expects to graduate in May, 2027. Her research is focused on the social factors that influence stuttering. 

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Courtney says that if you know someone who needs help for their stuttering, please contact the NSA. Courtney is on their board.
https://www.westutter.org/

How would you like it if every time you opened your mouth to speak you were terrified? 

How would you like it if you had to tell your teachers you were just too shy to publicly speak when that wasn’t the case at all?

How would you like it if every time you had to read out loud in school or give a report orally you were flooded with fear?

How would you like it when every single time you were asked “What’s your name?” your words simply wouldn’t come out and then the person who asked you that question would either laugh nervously or walk away shaking their head with puzzlement over what a weird girl they had just encountered – a girl who didn’t even know her own name?

How would you like it if you dreaded every milestone event even when you weren’t the focus or large family holiday functions where everyone talked fast and furious around you?

How would you like it if teachers and friends and relatives didn’t understand you?

How would you like it if when your parents sent you to a speech therapist, she couldn’t figure out what was “wrong” with you?

How would you like it if you went through life with the only relief being solitude?
 
That was my niece’s world.
     Courtney stuttered. 
     Courtney couldn’t get her words out.
 
“So much of life requires talking, especially when I was growing up before texting and e mail,” she readily admits. “My speech issues impacted every decision I made and every situation I faced.”

“My life,” relates Courtney, “was filled with fear and confusion and a great desire for not wanting to be different from other kids. And I wasn’t great at talking about it because talking about it meant it was real – and if it was real, I had to deal with it.”
 
The years passed. 
There were always so many unanswered questions rattling about in her head:

Where does stuttering come from? Is it a result of trauma?Why is it so variable?Why are all the systems in the brain not interacting in the most optimal way? Is there is a physical cause?Why, in many cases, does stuttering as people grow-up just “go away”?

She began to search for and find some answers.

There are all sorts of triggers that can cause people to stutter:      Talking about something linguistically complex 
     or when social demands are intensely high
     And often, the more you try not to stutter, the more you do.
     And yet, people don’t stutter when they sing.
     People don’t stutter when they talk to themselves out loud.

Courtney describes her stuttering as similar to losing control of a car on the ice. ‘Your first reaction is to slam on the brakes to get control. And that’s the worst thing you can do,” Courtney stresses emphatically. “You are supposed ‘to go with it.’” 
 
And the question Courtney continually pondered throughout her growing-up years was just that: “How do you roll with it?”
 
Next week: Courtney’s Breakthrough
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor

 
PS: Monday is Labor Day – a day to focus on, appreciate and recognize the hard work of all individuals who contribute to our communities, our economy, our health, safety and well-being.
Enjoy a day of leisure.

What’s a good antidote to “The Blues”? I found myself frequently obsessing over that question in recent weeks. 
 
I utilized Artificial Intelligence to see what it prescribed to get back to a sunnier frame of mind: 
     Physical activity
     Connection with others (party anyone?)
     Relaxation
     Surrounding yourself with music 
  
Then I asked AI what are some good ways to celebrate a milestone event because this summer marks fifty years since my husband and I met up again at our 10th high school reunion.
Top of the list for celebrating a special event: 
     Host a Party.
 
So we did. 
And not just any party. A party that checked all the above boxes. 
 
A KARAOKE PARTY!
 
After my husband and I welcomed everyone the evening of our karaoke party, I cranked out the following little vignette to add some context and some humor: 

Steven and I began steadily dating after our reunion. My father, having put up with my love life dramas, was quite explicit in his advice. And after one failed marriage, I was more open than usual to taking my father’s advice on what seemed to be a promising relationship with Steven.
Bluntly put, my father’s message was,
“Iris, don’t f-ck it up!”

 
I guess I didn’t, because we are still together. 
  
But back to the KARAOKE PARTY…..
There was a downside.
 
The largest private karaoke room I could find in Tampa only held 25 people. Whittling my lust – whoops, I meant list – down to 25 was an exercise in both social nuancing and tact. Those two attributes aren’t usually present in my personal bag of tricks.
 
I did the best I could, but many were left out. To those, I profusely apologize.
 
The venue: La La Karaoke in Tampa. 
 
It made me slightly nervous when quite a few people I invited gave the following response: “Oh, I don’t do karaoke, but I’ll come.” I figured the open bar might break down some of their hesitation to belt-out a few bars of their favorite ballads.
 
My friend Lynne and I spent some late-night hours singing along with Internet music videos – songs from our junior high and high school years that could be classified as swoon-worthy. In addition, we concurred that for a song to make the cut it had to be easy to sing to and upbeat in both message and tone. 
 
After listening to our renditions from an adjacent room, my husband snuck up close behind me and whispered with a chuckle: “Don’t even think about giving up your day jobs to start a singing group.” 
 
We both laughed. We knew how bad we sounded. 
 
Here’s a partial list of some songs we went ga-ga over during the night before the big event:

Dedicated to the one I love
Bad Bad Leroy Brown
Benny and the Jets
Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright
50 Ways to Leave Your Lover
I Can’t Get No Satisfaction
I’ll Have to Say I Love You in a Song
I Say a Little Prayer
Louie Louie
Love Will Keep us Together
Mack the Knife
Mrs. Robinson
Pretty Woman
Puff the Magic Dragon
Stop in the Name of Love
Sweet Home Alabama
Take it to the Limit
Truckin
Wake up Little Susie
Wedding Blues
Can’t Hurry Love
That’s What Friends are For

 
Did the shy people sing?
Some did and some didn’t.
 
Did the not-so-shy live up to their potential to belt out a song with verve and enthusiasm? I’d say, “Yes”.
 
How many REALLY had fun?
I think we hovered around 90 percent.
 
Would I do it all over again and throw another Karaoke party?
Absolutely.
 
In closing, a big shout-out to La La Karaoke in Tampa: www.lalakaraoke.com
The food was terrific – so was the alcohol – and the staff functioned like a well-oiled machine allowing me to sing with my buddies to my heart’s content
https://www.icloud.com/photos/#/icloudlinks/066Ydk9RJVIYFfJBu3eMhTLmg/

And that’s how to beat “The Blues”!
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

PS: And major kudos to my son, Max, who also contributed to our Karaoke playlist. Unlike Lynne and I, he chose text only to communicate his choices. And, BTW, he’s wisely keeping his day job too.

Today is our anniversary. My husband, Steven, and I have been married to each other for 49 years. 
The operative phrase is “to each other”.
 
We both had been married before.
We both had gone through a divorce.
And we both had learned that if it’s not right, get out. 
 
When Steven and I first re-met at our 10th high school reunion, I was immediately smitten. I never really had the courage to ask him if the feeling was mutual. It’s probably more accurate to say, I grew on him!

There was ONE thing upon which we agreed as soon as we started seeing each other steadily and that was that if our relationship wasn’t making each of us happy, we would end it.  

So, does that mean that every day over the last almost five decades we have made each other happy every single day? I think not. 
 
Has anyone aggravated me more than he has?
HARDLY.
And I know I have aggravated him more than anyone else ever has because he tells me so countless times.
 
What has kept us together – besides shared finances, homes, cars, and lifestyles?
Chemistry? FOR SURE.
Similar values and political beliefs? MOST OF THE TIME. 
Kids? HEE HEE! THAT COULD BE A WHOLE OTHER BOOK, MUCH LESS AN ADDITIONAL COLUMN!
A firm belief, as cheesy as it sounds, that we are soul mates? ABSOLUTELY.
And a core realization that if we couldn’t make it with each other, we couldn’t make it with anyone.
 
We still have our frustrations, our annoyances, our wanting-to-pull-our-hair-out-of-our-heads impatience with each other.

He’s very, very clean, but also very, very disorganized and messy – piles of papers, clothes and toiletries everywhere.I can easily function amid dust and crumbs, but am extremely organized. There are no piles I can’t dismantle. My lists have lists.

He is NEVER on time.
I am ALWAYS on time or too early. 
Therefore, whenever we leave the house together for a shared event, we always start-off in a fight. He accuses me of being rigid and inflexible. I accuse him of being deliberately passive-aggressive and slow moving.
 
He likes bland, plain food. 
For me, the saltier the better; the saucier the better, the cheesier the better. 
 
He is never hungry.
I am hungry all the time.
 
He tells me I harp on things way too long and in too much detail.
He tells me I have a long memory for hurts and disappointments and a too short memory for joy.
 
I tell him I get tired of looking for things he has lost or forgotten where he has put them, that he has no sense of direction and won’t look at a map and I still can’t understand that for someone so logical how he can’t remember the difference between texts and e mails! Geez.
 
However, we have:

overcome hurdles,survived profound losses,and re-surfaced after waging fierce battles,still together.  

My husband is:

the wind beneath my sails,my profound sense of security,my most consistent source of support,and I think he would say the same about me. 

We are each other’s ROOTS:

We started-off being born in the same hospital six days apart.We spent second, third, fourth and fifth grade in the same classroom.And we attended the same high school.

Long live “The Pastor Pair” and

long live all the other marriages that flourish and endure among impossible odds too.
 
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

PS: I finally plowed through one of the romance novels I promised myself I would read. My choice: 28 Summers by Elin Hilderbrand. I enjoyed the plot’s twists and turns, but I still don’t understand why the two lovers didn’t leave their respective partners and get together initially, thus saving all the drama????

In one of my April columns, I wrote about my very, very best friend, Andrea. She perished in a car/train collision 50 years ago at age 28 on April 15, 1975. She left a husband and two little boys, ages five and three. And she was also survived by three brothers, a mom and dad and grandparents. Little did I know I’d soon be writing about her again.

Five young campers – aspiring sailors – wake-up on Monday, July 28 eagerly looking forward to another fun day of sailing camp on Biscayne Bay in Miami, Florida. It is a hot and humid day – typical for summertime in the Sunshine State. 

I imagine the five of them, accompanied by their nineteen-year-old counselor, pulling away from the dock heading toward the open water for another lesson in sailing. I can just hear their excited words. I can just see their smiling faces as the wind swirls around them. I can picture their yet-to-be fully developed little bodies wrapped in life jackets in case of mishap. 

No one knows – even now – exactly how their sailboat and a massive commercial barge collided, but the sailboat ended up submerged under the barge and witnesses shortly after the collision said, “All the kids went flying off.”

The counselor and one camper were thrown clear and survived without injury. Two died instantly and two little girls were taken to a nearby hospital. One of the two hospitalized was later released. The last little girl, age 10, lingered for a few days. She passed away on Saturday without regaining consciousness. She was buried on Sunday. 

The young lady’s name was Arielle Mazi Buchman and she was the  granddaughter of my very, very best friend Andrea and named in her memory. 
 


The family rabbi, Eliot Pearlson, conducted the burial service for Ari. When he was interviewed, he said that it was “one of the hardest weeks of his life.” And added that Ari was “a remarkable child – an old soul always helping others.” 

How do we live in a world where our biggest nightmares can come true?

How do we go on after unspeakable loss?

How do we push forward with such a heavy burden to carry?
 
William Wordsworth’s poem “Ode: Intimations of Immortality” comes to mind. It expresses that while we can’t return to the joyful moments of the past, there is value in finding strength from those memories:

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, but rather find
Strength in what remains behind. 

I turned for guidance to several people who have lost children.

One suggested that it helps to both rage and mourn – to express  emotions openly and without fearing judgment.Another said, “No books, no philosophizing, no commiserating really helps; but people who both care and show-up is comforting.“ And if you have other children, all agreed you owe it to them to not abdicate your role as a loving and supportive parent.

 
I know Ari’s parents, siblings and grandparents will continue to be supported by their community, friends, family and neighbors. And I know they will take care of themselves and each other. 

I know they will find comfort in their Jewish faith and that its religious rituals will provide structure and a sense of order. 

Maybe, given time, some future legacy project honoring the cherished memory of Ari will help them carry on also. 

And, as we often say in Judaism to honor a person’s legacy and acknowledge the impact they had on others:

“May their memory be a blessing.” 

I hope that for them too.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,