Losing the Best Generation: A Tribute to My Dad — and Others!

Posted on September 26, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Courage, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, hope, illness, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Parent's Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Unsung Heroes

Last week, after I wrote about Harry and his sad death, my dear fellow blogger Karla’s comment really resonated with me when she wrote, “Only to have known Harry…we’re losing the best generation.”

Her comment made me think not only about Harry, but also about my dad, whose birthday was yesterday. He passed away in 2000, but if he had lived, he would have turned 119! After thinking about my dad, his barber, Tony, came to mind, because it occurred to me how he also fit into the “best generation” league.

I’ve mentioned before that even though my dad didn’t have a formal education under his belt, he was the smartest man I ever knew. Wise beyond words. He always told me that I would understand things long after he was gone, and he was right. Between my personal grief and my entrance into the final chapter of life, my perception has widened, and it feels as if I am comprehending the world in a deeper, wiser way, just as my father had said I would one day. That being said, as I pondered these old-timers, a realization dawned on me about Tony, but before I go into that, I have to give a bit of a background.

My clean-shaven dad was also a hair fanatic. He never lost his hair, but, instead, it seemed like someone had poured Miracle-Gro into it. Ninety percent of the time, or maybe even more, his barber Tony gave him a number 2 buzz cut. The other cuts were Marine flat top cuts that made him look as if a runaway lawn mower had zipped over the top of his head. My dad didn’t ask for that style specifically, but I think Tony gave him the style just to break things up and make things interesting.

Whenever my dad took my young son to the barbershop in his old jalopy, he always got the same type of number 2 buzz cut for him. I’m sure his grandfather’s (Gido’s) influence led my son to continue the tradition of the number two buzz cut after adolescence, which he cut himself to save money.

Gido was frugal too, actually cheap. He never gave Tony more than three dollars cash for a haircut. My dad had decided that was what his haircut was worth, regardless of inflation. Period. No tip. No nothing. No raise either, even after 20 years, maybe more, of going to Tony’s on a weekly basis.

Before my dad died of emphysema, he was frequently admitted into the ER and then the hospital. There was no time for his traditional buzz cut even though in less than a month’s time, his wired hair stood up and performed endless rows of jumping jacks.

I always picture his team of nurses, running their fingers through his pure white hair, saying, “Your hair is beautiful.”

To my dad, though, his hair was a mess, out of control and unruly. Every time we were about to call Tony to come and cut my dad’s hair, a medical crisis interrupted our plan. Stubborn Dad wouldn’t let anyone else cut into his white mane, no matter how high the strands stood in attention.

It wasn’t until after my dad died that we called Tony to cut his hair one last time. We did it in honor of our dad, who was so adamant about his clean-shaven face and buzz cuts. How could we allow mourners to come and see him in his open casket when his hair was the opposite of what he, and everyone else, loved?

I was so wrapped up in the wake and funeral and losing my dad that I never formally thanked Tony, nor had I seen him ever since. But suddenly, after reading Karla’s comments about how we are losing the best generation, it brought to mind my dad and then Tony, and I started to see the light, wondering how it must have felt for Tony to leave his barbershop, tools in hand, travel to a funeral home and approach the casket where my dad was laid out in his best suit, which he had bought for the occasion long before he was even ill.

I’m sure there were plenty of plugs in the wall to connect his shaver, because even though my dad had always shaved himself, Tony was willing to do it. In addition, his hands must have been shaking as he held his scissors. Sure, he could do a buzz cut in his sleep, but how could he concentrate on doing it on a corpse? Had he even seen a corpse before? Additionally, how could he focus on the task at hand when burdened with grief? Looking at my dad’s face must have flooded him with two decades of memories, recalling the curmudgeon of a man he loved unconditionally despite his cheapness. My dad was the only customer who got away with paying three dollars for a haircut during all those years, while the barber still gave him a smile and a lollipop for his grandson.

It wasn’t about money or the bottom line. The bottom line back then was about humanity, humility, and never bottoming out of character while holding onto dignity, doing the virtuous thing even if it felt morbid. They were men of faith who had faith and hope in simple things like hard work and doing the right thing.

It’s easy to picture my dad, Tony, and Harry, too. Members of the best generation that you could count on because they made you feel like you counted. We ARE losing the men and women of the best generation, but their legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew them.

Thank you, Tony, your act of kindness and compassion in giving my dad one last buzz cut is a reminder of the power of human connection, even in death. You reminded me of the importance of doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in the world, even in the midst of sorrow.

Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how age widens perception, like a zoomable flashlight, and helps us to see not only the dirt and debris in life, but also the fairy dust.

Wild About Harry

Posted on September 19, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, bankruptcy, Career, Courage, Crisis, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Divorce, Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Lost youth, Military, Natural above Normal, Positive Change, Positive thinking, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Turmoil, Unsung Heroes, Veterans, war

About this time last year, Harry was surrounded by stacks of files and folders piled high on his desk, and the phone was ringing off the hook. He was a commercial real estate agent who was used to working long hours and after a brief retirement, his real estate business seemed to be flourishing.

In addition to his business dealings, Harry had been keeping years of notes about his personal experiences. He wanted to write a memoir so that future generations could learn about his life, and the Holocaust.

I first knew Harry through my dear friend Pat’s husband and then through her. Now, over this past weekend, Pat and I found out that Harry, who had the onset of dementia and suffered a recent stroke, was admitted to a hospice facility. The doctors gave him a couple of days to live. *

Harry turned 90 this past May. He had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. Harry loved to ballroom dance with any woman who knew the steps, no matter her age. He would whisk her into a rhythmic routine, whether they were in a doctor’s office or the snack bar of an assisted living facility. He was a reminder that age is just a number.

His mother survived the Holocaust, and they managed to flee to America when he was seven. This was a Houdini-like feat, considering that the United States had restrictive immigration laws and policies in place during World War II, including the Johnson-Reed Act, which made it difficult for Jewish people, and other nationalities, to immigrate. These laws and policies were motivated by anti-Semitism and discrimination. (Interestingly, among this group that was denied visas to the U.S., as well as other countries, to flee the spread of Nazism in Europe in the 1930s was the family of Anne Frank.)

In America, Harry fought the bullies in grammar school but didn’t let them define him. He excelled in math, and in his spare time, helped his mother sell a variety of items from her truck that she and her new husband had scrimped and saved to purchase. Their hard work, determination, and entrepreneurial skills provided all the necessities they needed.

During his pre-med years at UConn, one of his professors gave him a dead cat to dissect. He looked at the cat, put down his scalpel, and said to himself, “I guess being a doctor isn’t for me.”

Harry’s change of heart led him on a different course.

Approximately 1.5 million Jews served in the Allied military during World War II, including 550,000 American Jews. Of these, 52,000 received U.S. military awards. Harry was one of them. His fluency in German made him a key player in the development of missiles, and he was awarded many distinctions and honors for his efforts. Obviously, he never held the discriminatory Johnson-Reed Act against America.

During the war, Harry married his first wife, a prominent Southern Belle, and started a family. Decades later, after his divorce, he married a second time and had a second family. His children from his first marriage are in their 60s, and his youngest son is in his 20s.

Harry’s career was as colorful and varied as his personal life. But he consistently worked hard and made money, until he lost it in his later years through no fault of his own. But he flexed his faith muscle, got back into the ring for another fight, and won another round of financial success, which kept him going to the sunset of his life.

I could tell countless stories about Harry, and I would love to write his memoir one day because I am wild about him in so many ways. But for the sake of brevity, I will focus on his humility. Even though Harry was a larger-than-life figure in business, and the last person you wanted to negotiate with, whether it was retail or real estate, he never forgot to share his wealth in many ways.

As a young entrepreneur trying to hit it big in the 1980s, I remember how Harry helped my t-shirt business. He purchased my entire stock for his thriving retail store, saving me from bankruptcy. Sure, my kids’ Godfather had requested his help, but Harry did this on his own accord and sold out of the entire line. (Pat met Harry through her now-deceased husband, and both men had met through their love of playing tennis, cementing their friendship on the court.)

Later on, when Harry went into commercial real estate, his primary job, as I see it, was providing mentorship. Sure, he was successful, but what’s success if you don’t pass it on? That’s what he did. Instead of getting wrapped up in his very important wheeling and dealing, he humbled himself to make room for others. For instance, one of his college-aged administrative assistants from Haiti, who was challenged financially and had no clear picture of the future, ended up with a highly successful career in real estate.

If only the world had mentors such as Harry. What a world it would be, wouldn’t you say?

So, around this time last year, Harry was wheeling and dealing again, until things started working against him, such as when he would get into a panicked state for the most innocuous reason. One of the last times Pat saw him, shortly after he was diagnosed with an onset of dementia, she had driven them both to dinner. During dinner, Harry became belligerent and argued with the professional and kind staff about the swift manner they were serving their meal. He insisted on “European dining.”

Needless to say, they never returned to that restaurant. Harry was confined to an assisted living facility at that point, and I knew his qualms about “European dining” were not about dining at all. He now faced a new enemy: deterioration and death. His goal was to rescue his life with the same chutzpah his mother had. Harry wanted to live longer and maintain his healthy lifestyle. After all, he was the kind of guy who could stroll through a burning building unscathed. Somebody or something was watching out for him, or he was plain lucky, at least most of the time.

Harry’s story is an inspiration to us all. He overcame incredible adversity in his life, yet, he never lost his faith or his sense of humor. He was a true mensch, often putting others before himself.

I toast you, Harry, with a glass of lemonade, your recipe that started with bitter lemons, now sugar sweet. May your legacy inspire us all to live our lives to the fullest and make the world a better place.

I imagine Harry, wearing one of my old custom-designed t-shirts from the 80s, smiling at me and raising his glass in return. “To life! To love! To lemonade! And to t-shirts!” he says.

* We received word only a few hours ago that Harry passed away peacefully this morning.

Power of Pietas

Posted on September 12, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Angels on Earth, disciplined non-conformist., environment, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief relief, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, Positive Change, Positive thinking, Problem Solving, Sacred Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, Unsung Heroes

Recently while walking in my neighborhood, I passed two coupon mailers scattered on the side of the road that I surmised had slipped from the weekly recycling pick-up load.

I impulsively passed right by them. A few moments later, I remembered how many times I, a former Cubmaster, volunteered to pick up trash with our Cub Scout troop at a local park.

Concurrently, I heard my mom’s thick accent, “See garbage; pick up!”

From a young age, I remember my mom picking up any piece of trash she saw on the sidewalk or in the street, whether it was a candy wrapper, piece of yarn, old shoe sole, or whatever else was discarded. She would purposefully dispose of it in a nearby receptacle, taking it upon herself to keep our planet clean.

Most times when she was on “trash duty,” she’d scold me as if I were the culprit who dumped the garbage.

“Dirty pig!” she’d shout.

Okay, ma! Okay! I said out loud during my walk, my voice thick with guilt, unable to erase the memories.

I performed a U-turn and picked up the two scraps of paper, brought them home and disposed of them.

I am fortunate to have neighbors who are responsible and clean up after themselves. However, this is not the case in all areas. I was recently shocked to see piles of old garbage, including Styrofoam, old tires, and whiskey bottles, behind a strip mall. This saddened me because I believe that people who do not clean up after themselves are not mentally “clean,” and their messiness inside themselves is simply reflected on the outside.

I once knew a therapist who worked at a hospital for the criminally insane. She told me that the first indication that a patient was getting better was that he or she had started taking care of their hygiene and cleaning their environment. This is because taking care of oneself is a sign of self-respect, and self-respect is essential for making positive changes in one’s life.

Additionally, a business owner once told me that he would meet prospective employees in the parking lot before bringing them inside his office to interview them. He wasn’t looking for a perfect car, but he was looking for someone who took care of their belongings. He believed that if someone couldn’t take care of their own car, they were unlikely to take care of their job duties either.

I think both of these stories illustrate the importance of taking responsibility for our actions and our environment, both big and small. Our character is not defined by our worst moments, but by the choices we make every day.

Viktor E. Frankl, Austrian psychiatrist, Holocaust survivor and author of Man’s Search for Meaning, wrote, “Ultimately, man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather must recognize that it is he who is asked. In a word, each man is questioned by life; and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible.”

This quote brings us back to the harsh reality: If we want to live a meaningful life, we must take responsibility for our actions and for the world around us.

I also thought about how pietas, a Roman virtue that is often translated as “piety,” has a broader meaning than religious devotion. It can also be translated as “responsibility,” “sense of duty,” “loyalty,” “tenderness,” “goodness,” “pity,” “compassion,” “kindness,” “dutiful conduct” and “devotion.”

In ancient Rome, pietas was considered to be one of the most important virtues. It was a virtue that was expected of all citizens, regardless of their social status or religious beliefs. Pietas was seen as the foundation of a strong and healthy society.

_{Image by Piyapong Saydaung from Pixabay}

I believe that pietas is still a relevant virtue today. We may not worship the same gods and goddesses as the ancient Romans, but we still have a responsibility to our fellow human beings and to our planet. By expressing pietas in our own lives, we can make the world a better place. We, too, can find meaning and purpose in our own lives.

In the end, what defines us is not how much we preach about faith, but how willing we are to bend down and pick up and throw away a stranger’s Mounds Chocolate Bar wrapper.

Grateful👀Gaze

Posted on September 5, 2023 by cattalespress under Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Damage Control, Depression, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief relief, hope, humor, I need a miracle, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Mental Health, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, Positive Change, Problem Solving, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability

A few blog posts ago, I had written about my ophthalmologist.

To recap, I learned that the doctor had faced serious sexual assault charges, including allegations involving a minor in 2020. I was unable to find out the final verdict, and it appeared that the records had been sealed.

As I said in my previous blog post, “On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.”

The incident left me shaken, and my mind began to wander down dark paths. I felt angry and self-righteous, wondering how people who did commit such heinous acts could get away with it. This was the final straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to my faith in people.

To backtrack, I started seeing the doctor in question two years ago after receiving a postcard advertising his services. Prior to that, I had been going to an optometrist for routine eye exams for over a decade. Optometrists are not medical doctors and cannot perform surgery, unlike ophthalmologists, who specialize in the diagnosis and treatment of eye diseases and vision problems.

Mind you, I had NO eye problems, but I switched to an ophthalmologist last year thinking that a doctor with more credentials would be better. To make matters worse, the new doctor found that my eye pressure was elevated during my routine eye exam this year. I didn’t learn about the incriminating information about him until after my appointment, when I had a month to wait for my follow-up visit.

So, my imagination ran even more wild. I obsessed about going blind without a doctor “in sight.”

I called my old optometrist, Dr. S., with my tail between my legs. She held no resentments against me and scheduled an appointment for me within the week.

Upon entering her office, she did not inquire about the reasons for my sudden departure or my return, nor did she probe me about my “personal reasons” for not going back to the other doctor. Instead, she focused on running a battery of tests on me.

I sat in a chair that felt as if it were getting harder by the minute, waiting for the final results. I thought about all the people in the universe who were at that very moment waiting, waiting in a doctor’s office or hospital, waiting to receive some catastrophic medical results that could potentially turn their neatly made worlds into a tsunami that would leave nothing unharmed and shaken.

I had spent so much time in the past “learning to breathe,” but now I had totally forgotten how.

On the verge of passing out from lack of oxygen, I inhaled sharply at the sight of a white cat with gray patches poking its head into the examination room. The cat was so pudgy that I wondered how it could fit inside a litter box. Its face was slightly askew, and when I got off the chair and reached for it, it darted away, only to return out of curiosity.

“Kitty! Kitty!” I called.

“I guess you met Marlon.”

“Yes.” My reply was followed by my long pause of anticipation.

Without further ado, Dr. S. explained everything I ever wanted to know about eye pressure, including the fact that eye pressure ranges could change in a course of a day. In the end, she told me that there was nothing wrong with my eyes.

“Really?” I asked in total relief.

I had been sickened by all the bad in the world as of late, but I knew that I would rather see it than be blind to it. I needed to be aware of the world’s problems in order to make a difference. Now, I was breathing with a familiar comfort again, relieved to know that there were still some good eggs out there.

Marlon jumped onto Dr. S’s floral skirt at this point, his gaze fixed on her soft-featured face and brown hair. It came as no surprise that she had rescued him, as she had rescued so many other cats over the many years I knew her.

Marlon was different, though. He was a sweet and loving feral cat that she had rescued after an animal rescue organization said he would never be domesticated. But she did it!

The cat was first named Marla by Dr. S. when “she” had initially appeared at her back door office bleeding from a slashed-up face. Dr. S. named her after Marla Hanson, the 80s model who had been a victim of a slashing attack instigated by her landlord in 1986.

Soon after, Marla became Marlon and was nursed back to health, neutered, and domesticated against all odds by Dr. S.

Marlon’s safe home for the last few years has been Dr. S’s office, since three other rescues live at her home. Marlon is locked inside at night and comes and goes as he pleases during the day.

On a couple of different occasions, the sweet and loving cat has brought a few kitten rescues to the good doctor.

“Kittens are always easy to place,” she told me as she explained the wonderful world of Marlon.

World? At least on this territory. Marlon and the good doctor helped me to remember that there are still good people in the world. I’m just grateful to SEE them and to SEE the not-so-good and the awful lot of awful too.

After hitting some of my lowest points recently, following nearly four years as a halved person, I left the doctor’s office clicking my heels, my renewed sense of faith purring throughout my body.