To the Left, To the Left

Mirror image. That is my LEFT hand.

Well, true to form, I missed National Left-Handers Day (yesterday). We Leftys are too busy saving the world to be bothered by random celebration dates!!

Seriously, though, I am left-handed, and proud of it (though annoyed by the right-handed world in which I live and try to cut with scissors). It was pretty obvious from the start, and I was lucky enough to come into existence after the Great Lefty Purge of the early/mid 20th century. My mom Joanie was a victim in the 1930s, when her attempts to write were roundly chastised, then systematically broken by the Ursuline nuns (who, to be fair, were just following orders). As a result, Mom not only had atrocious right- handed penmanship, but I swear it affected her brain. You’ve heard of Left Brain and Right Brain functions? Well, there was also Joanie Brain, the woman who never forgot ANYONE’S birthday, but also left the burner hot on the stove with a glass pan of lasagna on top of it. Fourth of July fireworks had nothing on that explosion of pasta and sauce!

As a child, I noticed that it was impossible to execute a smudge-free thank you note. As an adult, I struggle with everything from coffeemakers to can openers. It was a small thing, this attempt to re-orient myself to What Everyone Else Can Do Easily, but it really bothered me. And of course, I gave birth to two Leftys out of five children (Evan and Rose). Sorry, kids!  I do notice that I do some things righthanded, like playing tennis (or would if I did, which I don’t). In my way, I have Joanie Brain, too!

Looking back at history was not a heartening endeavor. The Latin word “sinister” means “left-handed.” Left-handedness has been traditionally allied with bad luck and the wrong choices. It was no fun to go through life as a synonym for a horror movie, let me tell you! And now we have the political Left and Right. I’ll let you sort that out for yourselves, but I will admit to a preference for my handedness in this area.

There are so many famous leftys!! Barack Obama and Bill Clinton (surprise, surprise). And George H.W. Bush and Ronald Reagan (to be bipartisan). Albert Einstein and Jerry Seinfeld.  Paul Mc Cartney and Maurice Ravel . Strange bedfellows if ever there were some!   Google “leftys” and be amazed. We may be only 10% of the population but we are mighty!

I didn’t ask to be born left-handed. I can’t control that part of myself. The world seems to be oriented against me and my ilk. But I remain proud of who I am, and so should you, righty or lefty.

Does that sound familiar?

Maybe it’s time to finally admit that we are all different. And that different is OK. More than OK.  Part of the Divine Plan.

So the next time you see a lefty, slap him/her five (and let them dictate which five). It’s all good.

My favorite leftys

Life is a Beach

There is nothing (and I mean nothing) like the silence when people you adore leave the house after a good visit, and you are left all alone. In a family our size, this happens with regularity, and I’m still not used to it.

As I write this, I am sitting on our eerily quiet porch in Lewes.  I cherish having morning coffee out here, but really? I love sharing this view, this experience, with the ones I love far more. On my own, I am forever turning to invisible companions and saying, “Would you look at that?” (luckily I have a hubby who knows not to dial 911 at these moments).

Our porch. How lucky are we??

I vividly remember my mom Joanie visiting us from Atlanta back in the 1980’s. She loved the beach almost as much as I do, and she treasured these summer weeks with us at the Delaware shore. Inevitably, her departure would trigger a full day of tears and melancholy. Same with my sister C. I always treated these goodbyes as final, and mourned as if I’d never see these people again.  It took the next wave of visitors to start to lift the fog of sorrow. `

Just said farewell to Rose and Evan, after a wonderful four-day reunion. Things could not have gone better, truly. No bickering, no tense moments. MUCH laughter. We ate Grotto Pizza and King’s Ice Cream and homemade crabcakes. We played a rousing game of Hearts one evening. We ran on the boardwalk in the early morning. One night, we checked out a Rehoboth club, and enjoyed hearing our talented friend Karen Murdock sing for the patrons. We even toured a local brewery! Add that to four days of perfect beach weather and what do you have? The glow of satisfaction? Nope! A weepy mom!! Not content to just savor the good times, I insist on adding a side dish of sad.

Rehoboth/Lewes is not only the source of present joys and sorrows: we have a 33 year history in this place. I trudge over the dunes at Park Ave. beach and am instantly transported back to holding tiny Sheridan’s hand on the same walk. I stroll past Funland on the boardwalk and the shrieks of joy bring me right back to my toddlers’ similar shrieks (usually of joy, but once, my over-stimulated offspring grappled for the wheel of the car ride and its exciting buzzer-horn. As I watched, aghast, four year old Sher leaned over and bit two year old Evan!)

Does anyone else have this weird reaction to the high points of life? Am I the only one who wastes the precious moments with dread that they will soon be over?

So here I am, watching the sun setting over the water. The sun doesn’t cry. The sun also rises. Tonight, I think I will have a glass of wine and relish the days just past, and try to be confident that other wonderful days are ahead for me and my loved ones.

At Aqua Restaurant, Rehoboth Beach

Stepping Up My Game

Been quite awhile since I’ve had a dose of culture. I am known for buying books (especially in advance of summer beach time) that wrestle with Life’s Big Questions. Whether spiritual tomes or great literature, it always strikes me that I should be reading it all (and all at once), and I never have enough time during most of the year. Never mind that by late July my beach reads ALWAYS skew towards the lighter side of chick-lit —every year I resolve again to use the dog days to better myself!

Same goes for theatre, concerts, museums and the like. Prices are up, for sure, which often puts a damper on my plans, but why can’t I even make it to a good foreign film these days?  Instead, most evenings I find myself sprawled on the sofa watching  reruns of “Modern Family” or (worse)”The Real Housewives of New York City”.  The only “bettering myself” that occurs at these times is the vague sense that at least I am better than the Real Housewife who screams at everyone at that party in Aruba.

So when my girls invited me to visit them in Brooklyn earlier this month, I anticipated lots of gabbing, ordering in pizza and getting our nails done (all of which occurred, all of which was  

Manicure Girls!

wonderful). I steeled myself for multiple subway hops here and there (my blasé New Yorker daughters didn’t bat an eye when two energetic young men got on, cranked up a boom box and proceeded to break dance in the aisle as the train lurched down the track. I pretended to be unaffected by this spectacle, even as I clutched my purse, stared straight ahead, and willed them to get off at the next stop).

But I hadn’t figured that Julie had plans, cultural plans, for us. The second day of my trip, she announced that we were going to the Guggenheim Museum in Manhattan, followed by dinner and the ballet at Lincoln Center. A native Manhattanite, I had never been to the Guggenheim, only knew it from the outside as an iconic Frank Lloyd Wright building. Ascending the spiral walkway through the museum, marveling at the incredible, thought provoking exhibits of modern art, I chided myself for avoiding this gem for so long. Later, we delighted in the sheer beauty of Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet” danced by the American Ballet Theatre.  

I returned home to Oreland at least 10 IQ points smarter, I’m sure.  And the question is: will I lose ground from here on out? Will I revert to the path of least intellectual resistance and pick up the Real Housewives where I left off? Or, instead, will I pick up a Pulitzer Prize-winning book, or tickets to a mentally stimulating play? 

The choice is mine, I know that. 

So may this be the year of Mahler and Dostoyevski. May I exercise that long-neglected muscle called my brain much more, and give thanks for the intellect I do have.

Proof I was there!

Happy summer, everyone!

Writes Well With Others? Not Me!

Ellen and Joyce, The Word Mavens

My friends Ellen and Joyce write essays and blog as a team (The Word Mavens). They work together to create some really funny stuff about family, current events and trends, and their Jewish heritage. I have no idea how they manage, but manage they do. Their work appears frequently in various publications, most recently, The Writer magazine (topic? How to write together. Guess other people have no idea how either). Their friendship has withstood years of back-and-forth (as I imagine it: Here’s an idea! I don’t like that idea! But it’s a great idea! It actually stinks!)  and I just don’t think I could be nearly as collaborative as they are. 

My friends Robin and Lini get together regularly to write for several hours.  Lini is working on adult fiction; Robin, young adult fiction. When they meet, they work on their different projects, but enjoy sharing resources and holding each other accountable to finish what they began. Sounds like a wonderful idea, and it sure seems to work for them. I don’t know that I could write in the room with another writer either. I’m afraid the clack-clack of someone else’s computer keys would remind me of how slowly I was going.

Does this make me seem like a reclusive curmudgeon? I hope not! I don’t require special pens, lighting or music. No silence? No problem! I just can’t stand anyone else focusing on my writing while it’s in progress. It makes me too nervous. The kids can play catch over my head when I’m in the zone and it doesn’t phase me a bit, but let someone look over my shoulder with a comment, positive or negative, and I am most definitely phased.

It’s not that I can’t take criticism, I’ve had lots of that in my life (and not only about my writing either. After 31 years I think I retain the title of Meanest Mommy in the World).  I just want my manuscript to be between me and myself until at least a draft of it is finished.

Now my latest book, Everyday Matters has just been published and the first shipment of books has arrived. I am very excited to get my new paper-and-ink baby out into the world. And this one has been a kind of collaboration: Rose has formatted, designed the cover, etc. Sheridan has carefully proofread and edited. I am deeply indebted to both of them. But their input occurred after the book was completely written, and while they made suggestions, they didn’t actually write any of it themselves. Whether it’s good or bad, Everyday Matters is all me.

Sometimes I think it would be fun to have a writing buddy, someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to alternate paragraphs with. But I know myself too well. I have a style, and, alas, I’m not that adaptable to the styles of others.

So go teams! I cheer your joint efforts and the inspiration and support you give to one another. I’ll be over here in the corner, going it alone.

**Everyday Matters is available through www.eliseseyfried.com for $15. A portion of all proceeds benefits Lutheran World Relief.

Money Money Money Money

Payday at Nana's!

My first paid position came about when I was six years old. Every summer, my sister and I would spend two weeks down at the Jersey shore with my Nana. Nana was a total sweetheart, but rather set in her ways. Her favorite thing in the entire world was sleeping, and at six, that was my LEAST favorite thing to do. So, Nana paid Mo and myself $5 every single morning we stayed in bed until 9 AM. Great gig, huh? But at that age, money meant less than nothing to us, and it was even more uninteresting because Nana often wrote us checks! We would arrive back home in NYC, suitcases bulging with signed slips of paper with Five and 00/100 written on them. After months of inaction on our part, Nana would plaintively ask us to PLEASE cash the checks.  When we finally did, the bounty went for Archie comic books mostly, maybe a little gum.

When I was 12 and babysitting a lot, I spent every single dime I earned on the Columbia Record Club. Columbia sent you a record every month automatically, and charged you if you didn’t return it quickly. I never remembered to send the records I didn’t want back on time. As a result, my vast, expensive LP collection was filled with music I never listened to.

Things didn’t improve when I grew older and worked in restaurants. “Easy come, easy go” was the motto of me and many of my co-workers, as tips flowed to us and then, magically, away from us and towards things like after-work beers and pizzas. For Heaven’s sakes, I was 20 years old! Ever heard of a savings account, Elise? Apparently not!

When the kids were young, we had a change jar in the kitchen, (quite optimistically) labeled “London Fund,” as that was our lofty travel goal.  Alas, the jar’s proximity to the front door and our quickly exiting, hungry little students who needed cafeteria money, caused the fund to deplete to the point that we just gave up and relabeled it “Luncheon Fund.” So much for THAT plan!

What's on sale this week? Who cares!

Nowadays, although we are on a tight budget, I don’t clip coupons, and neglect to scour the sales circulars before I shop. Every time I get in line behind a dedicated couponer, I envy the low number on her receipt ( even as I am tremendously annoyed at the way she holds up the register).  Much better to zip through, paying top dollar!

It’s all about my short-sightedness, I’ve concluded. I simply fail to look ahead and plan accordingly. Oh, I’ve read the Rich Dad, Poor Dad book. I just don’t take any of it to heart. And so on I go, living paycheck to paycheck, doomed to keep working until I am at least 105. But maybe…

Maybe I’d better go on eBay and see what the market is for a mint-condition recording of “Sing Along with Mitch.” Who knows? It might be worth a fortune!

Why I Don't Hate Mother's Day

Nana, Yaj and Aiden Mother's Day 2015

 I’ve been reading all the pro- and anti-Mother’s Day comments on Facebook and in the news. Those against the day have a variety of reasons, writer Anne Lamott’s essay “Why I Hate Mother’s Day” being a prime example (Anne thinks the day touts moms as somehow superior to non-moms). Why, even Anna Jarvis, who founded the holiday in 1908, criticized it in the end. Those for it, see it as a nice chance to spotlight their moms, grandmoms, daughters-in-law—much as Father’s Day does for all dads, etc. etc.

How do I feel? Well, I certainly do NOT feel as if I am any better than childless women. Indeed, women who choose not to bear offspring are very often more successful in business, have a more clearly articulated life path, and have a bit more time, not only to develop their own interests and passions, but to selflessly volunteer in a wide variety of ways. My sister C is in this camp, and I am very proud of the wonderful, fulfilled life she has built for herself.

But I am pro-Mother’s Day, and here’s why.

It’s darned hard, this mothering thing, and no one thanks you, a lot of the time. Your kids are either too little to express gratitude, or (in the teen years) too moody. And then, if you’re lucky enough to have children with children of their own someday, they are so immersed in their own babies (who also don’t thank them) that the year can indeed go by without much in the way of recognition, for any of us.

Yeah, I know Mother’s Day is a cash-cow for Hallmark, but as I looked at the display of cards last week, I was struck by the wide variety of “mothers” being honored. Single moms, adoptive moms, mothers-in-law, women who are “like a mother to me.” Even thoughtful cards meant for moms who have, tragically, lost children. All deserving of a little pat on the back, a few words of acknowledgement, a bit of special treatment, at least in May, if not more often.

We may not all be mothers in the technical sense, but we all have, or had, mothers, and that is reason enough to celebrate them. Mother’s Day takes nothing away from non-moms, any more than Easter takes away from the observance of Passover. Lord knows there is not very much to be positive about in the world these days. So why not make a bit of a fuss about the special people in our lives, whoever they may be?

Yesterday, I thought of all the many mothers in my life: my mom Joanie (gone 10 years next September), two wonderful grandmas, many friends who are amazing moms, and now, my incredible daughter-in-law Ya-Jhu, who enjoyed her first Mother’s Day since precious Aiden was born last May 27th. Then I thought of my five beloved kids, and the unique joy they each have brought me. And then I opened my Hallmark cards. And gave thanks.

Mom and little me

Butterfly Effect

One of my favorite sights of spring is the arrival of the butterflies. Butterflies, those amazing creatures who are utterly transformed from lowly caterpillars into colorful, winged beauties, are wonderful symbols of resurrection.  Their cocoons are the tombs from which they emerge into glorious new life. Butterflies remind me that death has been conquered, once and for all, and that someday we, too, will get our wings. And they remind me of something else as well…

Have you heard of the “butterfly effect”? The theory that the slightest flap of a butterfly’s wings ripples on and on and impacts the weather in a far distant location at a much later date? While the flap doesn’t directly cause, say, the tornado, it is one of the first conditions that set everything in motion, ending with the tornado. If the flap had not occurred, things would not have gone in the exact same direction. So even tiny things matter. They matter a lot.

The butterfly effect is an idea that reminds us that we are all connected, everything and everyone on earth, and that all of our actions have re-actions that extend far, far beyond us—for good or ill. Dropping trash on the ground matters, because too many people have done too much damage to our planet.  Hurting another person matters to every person, because the harm caused diminishes us all. We are so deeply interconnected, and most often we don’t even see it. So we go on acting as if what we do has no impact, when in fact the very opposite is true.

This week a dear friend of our family was dealt a crushing blow. The sister-in-law of Julie’s boyfriend Stephen, Cathy Montoya, was brutally murdered in a home invasion in Atlanta, GA. I never had the privilege of meeting Cathy, but she was by all accounts an extraordinary woman: political activist, totally committed to immigrant, LGBTQ, civil and human rights. At age 38, Cathy left the world in the middle of her life, with so very much left undone. And yet…

Just maybe her short time spent on earth will be like that flap of a butterfly’s wing, that will ripple on and on and affect many lives far down the road, in ways we can’t even imagine. And, as many will attest, Cathy’s affect will be like the flap of the wings of a kaleidoscope of butterflies, touching the world in myriad, wonderful ways for many decades to come. She will live on in the memory of her beloved wife Meredith, in the memory of all whose lives she touched.

So this season, when you catch a glimpse of a Monarch or a Swallowtail hovering over the flowers, please think of Cathy and remember this: Whatever we do, whatever we say, matters. It all matters. So let us be the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Let us set positive change in motion. We can do it. We can.

May God bless the Cabell and Montoya families.

http://www.youcaring.com/memorial-fundraiser/honor-catherine-han-montoya-s-life-legacy/337884

Fiercely Dependent

I was walking with my friend Sherri yesterday morning, and a topic of conversation was the age difference between me and Steve (8 years). We commented on the arc of such a relationship: (ages 18

Us (ahem) several years ago

and 26? Issue! Ages 35 and 43? Non-issue! Ages 58 and 66? Issue again!) Although I will do my very best to die the same day he does (thus ensuring us a heartwarming feature on Action News), I have to face the fact that I will probably have some years alone down the road. And it got me thinking. What does Steve do for me that, someday, I will have to learn to do for myself?

Where do I begin?

Steve is the resident handyman, laying kitchen floors and installing light fixtures with aplomb. Sherri told me yesterday of a woman she knows who hires someone to hang pictures on her wall. I pretended to be shocked at this, while at the same time saying to myself, “So? What’s the problem?” Steve resurfaces the driveway in spring, shovels it in winter, and does any gardening (admittedly not much) that is done on the Seyfried property. 

Steve is the long (and even short) distance driver. When we were on the road on our children’s theatre tour of the Northeast (1979-80) he literally drove every mile. I was charged with being the (abysmally inept) navigator. But he didn’t really need me to give him directions as he ALWAYS knew how to get where we were going, even if we’d never been there before. Nowadays, I blame my (abysmal) eyesight as I lean on my sweet hubby to drive Julie or Rose to their NYC-bound trains in Trenton, to go out for groceries when there is ice and snow. What will become of me when I have to ferry myself around? Not ready to find out!

Steve pays the bills and balances the checkbook. Steve battles with Blue Cross on the phone when they won’t cover our college kids’ doctor visits away from home. Steve goes up into our scary attic to find this or that box of whatever that I suddenly decide I need to go through. Years ago I was able to navigate the rickety pull-down stairs myself, but one day as I climbed I was met by a squirrel, its mouth full of Sheridan’s kindergarten drawings, and I was so shocked I nearly fell backward. That was the end of my attic exploring. Haven’t had squirrels up there in a decade, but you never know!!!  Better safe than sorry!! Better depend on Steve!!

Us, a couple of years ago

We none of us know our last day on earth, so it behooves us to be prepared, and to be as independent as possible for as long as possible.  Clearly, I have a looong ways to go to be ready to be out on my own, and I fervently hope it will never happen. But just in case it does…

I wonder if Sherri knows the phone number of the picture hanger?

Purely Research

I do work hard in my office at church.

Promise.

But you’d never know it to look at my browsing history on my computer.

Why, just the other day, after checking the weather (more spring snow predicted for Philly!!! Panic time!!!) and the news headlines (too depressing to recount), I checked out the following:

Kate Middleton’s new maternity coat (just because)

Top 10 things to do in Lombok (Evan is trekking around the world. He just finished a hike through the Borneo jungles and is headed for the beach in Lombok, Indonesia. I’m all primed if he needs advice on which temples to visit.)

Secret to Cleaning Gunky Kitchen Cabinets! (vegetable oil and baking soda! Must try!)

Fifth Ave. Apartment Sold for Record $77.5 million (and here my two Brooklyn based daughters are always looking for cool places to live! They just missed out!)

Rachael Ray’s Spicy Lamb Sliders with Harissa (dinner this week. Extra Google search for what the heck harissa is).

Holy Week, The Cross, and Children (ah! At last! A web article that relates to my job!)


9 Ways to Make a Good Living as a Writer (aaand I’m off track again!)

Waxed Paper Stained Glass Butterfly Craft (for church! For church! Back to it!)

Kris Jenner, Momzilla (not exactly a Woman of the Bible, so…)

And so on. The World Wide Web is both paradise and pitfall for an ADHD sufferer. I never would have taken the time to go to the library and look all this stuff up, back in the day, so I got a lot of actual homework done in school. I would probably be a straight D student now (unless I could do a senior project on “Kris Jenner, Momzilla”). I try to only peek a couple of times per day. But one view leads to the next, and suddenly an hour has passed and I’m still rating Lombok temples. I like to think I’m a good researcher, thoroughly investigating all sources when a topic piques my interest.  It’s a shame that most of my interest-piquing topics have little relevance to my daily life.

It’s worse now that I have an iPhone. I can waste my time even when I’m NOT at my laptop, looking up this and that random thing. And it seems the rest of my family are no slouches in this department either. At the dinner table, it’s a race to see who can whip out their phone fastest to determine Meryl Streep’s Oscar nominations. We used to rely on our brains to recall these facts. No need now! As long as there’s wifi we can know it all in a trice!

The Pandora’s box that is the internet has been opened, and there’s no going back. So I need some more self-discipline. Next time someone asks the name of Stephen King’s first book, or for directions to the mall, I will actually stop and think.  And probably get it wrong, but at least I’ll have done it on my own!

Hotly Contested

Aaaand I just hit “send.” Done!  I have emailed my entries for this year’s National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest. I entered for my “Everyday Matters” column in the Chestnut Hill Local, as well as for my blog. Winners will be announced in late June, and I will truly be flabbergasted if I am named a winner (or even a semi-semi-finalist). After all, the NSNC’s members include such journalistic luminaries as Dave Barry and Steve Lopez.  I am paddling in the deep end of the writers’ pool wearing kiddie floaties. Glub, glub!

 My track record with competitions in general is not so great (trying to remember when I last won one. Give me a minute. Nah, nothing.) I have bombed the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Competition, the Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards, even the tongue-in-cheek Wergle Flomp Poetry Contest (this last asks for entrants to deliberately write the worst poems they can imagine—and my poem wasn’t even bad enough!)  But hope springs eternal, and so hope I do, each and every time I fill out the forms and send in my writing. As the lottery commercials say, you have to play to win, right?

I haven’t fared so well with theatre tryouts either over the decades. True, I did get cast in the Northeastern US children’s theatre tour that brought Steve and myself to Philly 35 years ago. But most of the time I was never tall enough, blonde enough, musical enough, or coordinated enough. I never stood out in the crowd of 30 acting/singing/dancing wannabes shuffling off to Buffalo in the studios where the aptly named “cattle call” auditions were held. At one point I made a demo for voice-over work. The result, after a grueling hour in the recording booth, has nabbed me exactly zero gigs. James Earl Jones I am not, apparently.

When Sheridan was a teenager, he won an ASCAP Morton Gould Young Composer Award for his

Sher at ASCAP awards May 2001

first string quartet, “Pro and Contra.” We were proud and delighted of course, and traveled to NYC for the presentation.  Sher won several competitions in the early 2000’s, as a matter of fact. He had changed his name (from Alex, the middle name by which he had always been known) to embrace his first name, Sheridan, as his composer name. So when the phone would ring and someone would ask for “Sheridan” we’d know he had won something.  In recent years Sheridan has not been entering competitions, even as he continues to write some really solid music. His self-esteem doesn’t seem to need the extra validation these contests offer.

I wish I were half that secure, but alas I am not.  How in the world can I tell if I am a decent writer if I don’t have some kind of plaque or trophy to show for my efforts? So on I go, paying entrant’s fees and crossing my fingers time and time again.  Surely the odds will eventually be in my favor!  Wergle Flomp 2016, here I come!