By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

I met my late husband on a blind date in 1952, the year Adlai Stevenson (Democrat) was running for President against General Dwight D. Eisenhower. (Republican) We were both political junkies — Democrats, and, since he was still in dental school, I had to be a “cheap date.” And so he “courted” me at free Stevenson rallies. We were very vociferous and proactive, and despondent over our loss when Eisenhower won.

Fast forward to a time when we were married and my husband was finally earning money — which was about the time he switched parties and voted for Nixon. Our “mixed marriage” survived all 57 years until his demise in 2013. We listened respectfully to each other, recognized the extent to which we were both “dug into” our (his “new”) belief system and learned from each other. We didn’t think the other was stupid, ignorant, scheming or unpatriotic. (He was a veteran of the Battle of the Bulge). Neither thought the other was a “bad” person, based on our political beliefs — or on anything else for that matter.

I will admit there were times when I entertained ideas about how to keep him away from the voting booth on election day, or tearing up his vote-by-mail ballot when I saw it in the out-mail box, but they never materialized. And so we both experienced political ups and downs as Nixon was followed by four more Republican presidents in my husband’s lifetime (not in this order): Ford, Reagan, Bush (1), Bush (2) and three Democrats: Carter, Clinton and Obama.

And I will never know if he would have become the “No Trump” Republican as did so many conservatives of our acquaintance. And I won’t even conjecture for this writing.

But I do know several “mixed marriage” couples now who are having a hard time with their relationship over this issue. I know, too, of dating couples who have either broken up over it or, if seeking a partner, have placed politics as an issue among their top criteria for a match.

What has happened to past civility and respect for our differences? For me, this is the single most frightening aspect of our current political climate. If we could only shed the idea that our disagreements make us natural enemies…

I must admit, I get stymied when I ask people from “the other side,” “Are you not outraged by the disrespect and direct defiance of law, or by inciting language or by lack of transparency ?” and I discover the answer, in most cases, to be “Well, I don’t like it, but it doesn’t  affect my support” followed by some version of a reference to “wonderful policies” and “what “everybody else” does. And that’s when I pull back and realize what “dug into” means. It means, “I ain’t budging” — and it comes from both sides.

So, it is true. I may not budge and they may not budge, which should not make us enemies. This is where history is such a balm. When I read about some of the most bellicose periods our country has experienced during its few hundred years of existence, I am comforted to know that we have always managed to survive in relative unity. This one may be the ultimate test.

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

“Hello, Emily. This is Billie (as if I didn’t know). Are you sitting down?  I just did something monumental, and you’re the only person I can talk to about it.”

“Yes, I’m sitting down,”  my curiosity piqued and I was hesitant to tell her that I had just been studying all the artifacts in my living room, wondering how and when they would be “disposed of.”

In 1985, Billie, my good friend next door neighbor, and I took our first “adventure” trip together to Nepal. I was 58, with a spouse not at all interested in Nepal, and she, 52, a very recent widow with a daughter in the Peace Corps in Nepal.

Each year thereafter, for about 20 years, we did other (at the time) off the beaten track trips, collecting information, pictures and personal stories from our journals, all of which currently repose in a set of individual albums for each of us. The albums are in my garage in Boca and in her garage in Madison, CT.

She continued, “I just threw my albums away.”

Shock and silence … And then finally, “You what?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she, always the minimalist, said defiantly. “Who is going to look at them? All of the stuff in there is in my head. These places and pictures are meaningless to anyone except us. It just isn’t fair to my family to make them responsible for getting rid of them.”

“You really did that? All of them?”

Horrified, I visualized the careful hours post- trips — the sharing of pictures and endless reminiscing that lasted until the next trip, the intermingling of memories each time she and I connected, by phone or visits. And, yes, the precious value to me of these possessions.

“Not yet, but almost all. I’m still working on it.”

Her voice hung in the air as if she were expecting my unequivocal approval.

“Hmmm,” I said thoughtfully.

And then … the back and forth acknowledgement of my obsession with hoarding and her insistence that this was an important way to show love for our progeny.  

“Please don’t go sentimental on me,” I thought, and then my eyes wandered back to my living room artifacts and recognition of the massive and unpleasant job entailed in the final disposal of life possessions. Thus, our conversation escalated to conclusion.

“I want you to go directly into your garage as soon as you hang up and take one album and get rid of it. Do one a day — randomly, whichever is on the top, slowly — no rush. You can look at them one last time, if you must,” she said, her voice intonation was firm as it always is.  

Eventually, we ended our conversation and, with my marching orders clear in my head, I strode into my totally disorganized garage and plucked the first album I saw titled: Amazon Adventure 1988.

She was right! How many pictures of jungles and indigenous people, and fish and slimy snakes, would anyone else want to view, and who, indeed, were Karen and Claire, and Tom and … and … but wait … Rebecca! Rebecca Schaeffer, 22 year old TV starlet with her parents … Rebecca, who just months after our return was shot to death in her Los Angeles apartment by a celebrity stalker whose trial and story made hot headlines for months thereafter.

Could I throw away all those pictures of her and newspaper stories and correspondence with her parents? Could I?

Tomorrow, I will tackle the Galapagos Islands, where only one has-been celebrity was among our group as we tripped our way lightly in full nudity following the blue boobies and newly hatched turtles into the clear waters off Ecuador.

Yes, Billie, I promised. I will, I will, I will.

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

I worship Steve Jobs for his brilliance and creativity and the Smartphone (about his persona , another time). However, for all the ways in which he changed the world, not so much. He did indeed change it both for the better and the worse. And the totality of that Ying and Yang has often been explored, but I am somehow impelled to do it here. 

For the better:

* Cell phone parking lots at airports and the concomitant ease for people connections.

* The magic of texting when I’m at a meeting and the phone vibrates, and it’s a non-emergency (which, of course, it always is) and I can surreptitiously wiggle my fingers to assure the caller that indeed he or she will have my undivided attention — after the meeting — lest he or she feel ignored.

* The incalculable joy of knowing that only I will have access to my conversations — that no one (except maybe a couple of enterprising Russians) will be able to listen in on the “other phone.”

* The wonderful access to Google to find out the name of the female lead in that 1936 movie that most people I know who weren’t even born yet, had not seen … and my ability to bypass Siri for that information. Siri, who, God save her soul, is an ignorant idiot. (If that is an oxymoron, my apology to idiots.)

* Of course, the advantage (?– hmmmm) of being able to have human contact wherever I am and whatever I am doing.

* And I can count on you to fill in the missing advantages.

But for the inevitably permanent worse!

* Although I am “in touch” with many folks as a result of the iPhone — that most wonderful of the five senses — touch (skin to skin touch) is slip, slip, slipping away and some folks don’t even know how far gone it is.

* As a species, our very bodies are in transition — mutating, no doubt — heads down, fingers flying, eyes darting from other world-phone to the here and now place of reality. We have actually learned to be in two (or maybe more) places at the same time, and, the younger we are, the more natural it seems.

* And my personal abhorrence gets tested on an almost daily basis. When I am in a social setting with others, dinner, after-dinner … a walk … a beach-sit … a night on the town … wherever — I give the other person or people my undivided attention. But I am so old that I actually expect the same from others. (an unrealistic expectation, yes!) Is it possible that we never had “emergencies” when I was younger, living with land phones only, where people left messages to which responses were given within hours or days — not seconds.

Please, when we are together, turn it off, put it away, do not coddle it as if it were some small living creature needing the warmth of your hand. And fergodsake, please don’t show me your pictures unless I ask for them, and I promise I won’t force mine on you!

* Finally, however, I dare anyone to deny its highly addictive nature.

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

On June 6, 1944 —”D-Day” — 75 years ago, Allied troops invaded the Normandy beachhead in France. Who remembers? We had been officially “at war” since Dec. 11, 1941, and the victory we all prayed for seemed deadly far into the future.

I was 17 and, on that day, I was walking down the aisle for my high school graduation and the boys in my class — almost all of them — were preparing to go to war. The ones in the classes ahead of mine were already gone. Saturday night dances to the songs of the popular radio program, Your Hit Parade, most often in different people’s homes, became an all girls meeting. We shared mail and discussions about whose boyfriend was stationed in what weird-named place no one had ever heard of in Asia or which Air Force base or Navy ship those boys were likely to have been on, curled up and writing longing letters on what was called “onion skin” paper — “V-Mail.” (V for victory) I can still remember the serial numbers, (required on addresses) of some of the boys with whom I corresponded. I was a prodigious letter-writer.

That was only one of the things we did for the “war effort.” Bob Hope would bring his troupe of entertainers to the most remote corners of the globe, but I wasn’t a celebrity and the only “cheer” I was capable of was a newsy letter, as funny as I could make it. I can only now imagine how they might have been received — “mail call” in the midst of bombing and sniping, and surrounded by blood and guts.

We were all-in for “sacrifice.” The government issued “ration” books to every household, which limited the supply of sugar, canned goods, meat and cooking oil, and we couldn’t purchase those or a list of other items without relinquishing some ration stamps. I’m sure that fuel for cars was on that list, although who ever heard of a two car family back then?

We gave blood — even lying about our age. My parents were volunteer air raid wardens stationed at assigned times on the roof of our apartment building, dispatched to do — I can’t imagine what — at the suspicion of possible foreign planes hovering over our space. Neither of them, or anyone I knew at the time, had remotely considered the possibility of ever being a passenger on an airplane.

We didn’t have television and relied on newspapers and radio for information. The movie, Saving Private Ryan, was not even a budding creation in the mind of the not yet two-year-old Steven Spielberg.

Too many of us knew one or more than one “kid” who came back home in a body bag or with missing body parts or some who didn’t come home at all. Sadness was pervasive, but life at home went on.

I was bound for college, a commute of sorts, a daily subway ride from Brooklyn to NYU (downtown Greenwich Village) — where there was always another passenger to shake me from my sleep so that I would not miss my station, as I held tightly to my tell-tale bundle of books. And where, within a year after D-Day, “the boys” were flooding back to colleges on the (free) G.I. Bill.

Obviously, I’ve had several birthdays since D-Day. When I think of the seismic changes in society, technology, communication, musical trends, standards of behavior, political conduct, healthcare, attitudes about food and fitness, attempts at racial and gender equality, connectivity to the ends of our planet and, of course, so much more, I feel so lucky to have experienced “many lives” and much personal growth. Although today feels like a low point in that roller coaster ride, I know enough about history to be confident that we will drag ourselves out of this current morass, too. Indeed, it is the lessons of history that give us hope.

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

I live frugally, though not inexpensively, in a 50 unit non-gated community in a perfect neighborhood for me where I feel safe and secure, almost like in the old days when people never bothered to lock their doors. I live where ducks and birds, and trees and grass, and flowers and water, and Walgreens are all within my sight. Daily, I walk maybe a couple of hundred feet or so to the mailbox from which about 95 percent of what I retrieve is requests for my money. And, truthfully, if I could, I would give to them all.

But here’s the thing. I have every chance of outliving my money — depending, of course, on a plethora of conditions that might or might not arise regarding the national economy and my own personal health which, for my age (it could be bad luck to mention) is remarkably and thankfully okay, so far.

So, I actually “saved” $24.83 on my Publix total bill of $78.34 this week. This is mostly an aberration but with careful attention to “BOGOs” it does happen occasionally. I mostly store-hop to save money — at the Dollar Store, Aldi’s, Walmart, etc. By most measurements, I am not poor. And, yet, I live in fear of becoming so.

I am also frantically frustrated by the “stop” button in my head which tells me that I cannot “give” (money) as I would like to — nor can I reasonably prioritize which “cause” is more worthy than another.

However, in consideration of the fact that May is Mental Health Month and, from my perspective, most every good cause rests on the assumption that emotional stability is the bottom line requisite for advocacy, this is and has always been my priority. (www.faulkcenterforcounseling.org)

No one in this world escapes from having bad things happen to them, and learning how to cope with the negative in a way that can enhance the positive elements to which all of us are privy in varying degrees is the greatest single gift we can hope for in life.

I can also list the mail I get that gives me pause as I weigh these other needs against my actuarial numbers, my assets, my chances of income and my willingness, or lack of — to live a lesser life.

I am in awe of Henry David Thoreau and Siddhartha, but not yet ready to live a Walden Pond life style.

On the other hand, I don’t have the slightest desire for a Park Avenue Penthouse, as a metaphor, and all the accouterments of that lifestyle.

And see? I just opened my mail and am told that my auxiliary health insurance premiums are being increased as of July. That’s enough for contributions to the several good causes represented by the letters in the “maybe” pile on my desk. Oh, I’m sure you noticed that gas prices have inched up again.

Of course, I am but one of the millions who go through life prioritizing expenditures and living with the realistic awareness that — poof — the world, our world, could end any minute.

And that’s why, having had my rant, I put that thought back into a locked pocket somewhere in my aura and begin to write checks with abandon, and look up at our Florida sun and get ready for a beach day tomorrow… and repeat the old saying “whatever will be, will be.”

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

There are some people I know who unintentionally sound rude in simply expressing their curiosity when they ask, “What do you do all day?” Actually, I interpret that as a coded unstated question which, in reality, goes like this, “So, old lady, what’s it like to live alone?”

My answer: “Oh Baby! For me, it’s the last phase-of-life dream – being responsible to no one, a reward for all those, yes, mostly wonderful years of being what my family needed me to be but, to be frank, was not always the real me. Now, I am able to navigate from day to day, my journey of choice, while wallowing in long delicious silences as well as whatever sounds I consciously seek.

First, as always, I need to acknowledge that I am lucky, lucky, lucky to be in relatively good health — able to drive, walk (not so well), see and hear (could be better, but…), read (with a magnifying glass), think, feel, muse, ponder, explore, converse and use, with some ease, computer and smart phone.

So, “what do I do all day?” I am out of bed any time between 6 and 8 a.m., and then washed, showered, exercised (daily), dressed and en route to the kitchen, during which lightning-quick time, I alight on my choice of breakfast . Not one to fall into habit, my need for variety sometimes causes the (minor) stress of decision making – as in, what to eat for breakfast, despite that my singular most important mantra is “avoid stress.”

If it’s Sunday, I bike and then read the New York Times, which could account for a major part of the day. Other days, I have the following options (some more chosen commitments than options): prepare for or facilitate a Memoir Writing Class (since the year 2000), co-facilitate a therapeutic support group, go to the Boca Downtown library where, after doing my business, I often just sit on the outdoor swing in the community garden and study the variety of growing veggies, putter around in my own teeny tiny garden caring for the “real” growth and admiring the fake ones that make me smile, invite company for a meal (I love to create my own recipes, which I can never duplicate), keep in touch with friends and family by phone, text, e-mail or snail mail or actual eyeball to eyeball and touch depending on their advanced or laggard ability to communicate and their geographical location. I walk for about 20 minutes in my apartment on a straight path while watching TV or outdoors around a local lake, write a poem, or check out a newly discovered website or TED talk, spend time with Google and Amazon, direct “Alexa” to play music of my current mood while I listen quietly and think great thoughts, the latter sometimes even without the music, plus the usual mandated chores which keep my house tidy the way I like it. I love to wander in Publix and Dollar stores, beach and pool, of course. [I watch] very limited TV, even as I am addicted to “news” (whatever that is, these days), but that’s a whole separate column. I take occasional local three to five day runaways with friends, exploring the glorious diversity of our state. And, as self appointed president of the “Nap Society,” I indulge frequently and highly regard it as a life extending activity.

It’s a good life and I love living it.

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

I am a proud member of the Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem fan club and my feminist “creds” stack up high against any of today’s raging “fems.” I have quietly endured the silence of the pre #metoo movement when it was just as accepted for men to demean women in all sorts of subtle and not so subtle ways, as it was in the early 1900s to accept sending people of color to the back of the bus. We have traveled many miles since those days, but we have not yet reached an acceptable destination.

In the 1950s, when I was ecstatic to have landed a job as creative director in an ad agency (when all my friends were teachers), I discovered, after having achieved several proud moments on the job, and after having been literally chased around the huge important desk belonging to the boss, that I was facing two choices: “fool around with” (translated: “have sex” with) the boss or find another job. I found other jobs, some of which placed me in that same exact predicament. I have no lasting painful affects from those experiences. They seemed as natural to me as asking the grocer for three pickles. I learned how to quit jobs.

Fast forward to #metoo and today. It is very different, thanks to some kind of human evolution, as well as some very brave women willing to take risks.

Many of them now speak up about the unspeakable. As a result, many men are punished and all men are cautioned and educated about what is and what is not appropriate. They are learning – but some of them the hard way. Some of them are now subjected to the extremes of change.

I personally know of two instances where male behavior was totally misinterpreted, reported as sexual harassment, only to be justifiably dismissed after many months of investigation, as frivolous and unsubstantiated complaints — and the reason for the many months seems to be the avalanche of complaints that require investigation. With reputations tarnished, in some cases, economic stability ruined and emotional trauma gone unacknowledged, these men have experienced major suffering. I am not blind to the difficulty of proving such complaints, nor am I unaware of the many years when women’s complaints were dismissed unquestioningly. I am merely pointing out the ways in which extremists can destroy an important movement.

And there is another potential down side to frivolous accusations. It is not that women don’t like to be “touched.” We just don’t like to be touched inappropriately by inappropriate people. But let us not devalue the importance of touch in our lives. It is enough that we have come to accept as a value expressions of love and affection through texts and emails and www.flowers.com — no physical touch there. In recent years, we have seen an abundance of scientific studies that handily confirm emotional and physical benefits from touch, suggesting that the act of touch is fundamental to human communication, health and bonding, as it is a primary means of spreading compassion.

We don’t want men to stop touching us. We just don’t want the wrong men to touch in the wrong places. And we don’t want #metoo to scare away or inhibit the wonderful touchy-feely expressions of good friends who give good hugs. I, for one, attribute my longevity, in part, to some really good hugs.

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

There’s not much one can count on these days but February is still loyal, and comes around every year touting “love” — whatever that is or is about to be. I have this very scary cartoon patched to my kitchen wall. It pictures a human woman with her arms around a shrimp about her size. The caption reads, “The other day I told my A.I. (Artificial Intelligence, in case you’ve been hiding under a rock) that I love shrimp tempura and it said, ‘What’s that?’ And I repeated in a surprised voice, ‘What’s shrimp tempura?’ and it said, ‘No. What is love?’” Do you have an answer?

When I wrote my first February column those many years ago, I interviewed a bunch of people and received a variety of responses none of which had any connection with the others.

Of course, there are all kinds of love: for children, relatives, pets, friends, country, eggplant, sports cars, football teams, Paris, a new kitchen, Bradley Cooper or the beach. (I know, left out a few things). But I am talking about what is referred to as “romantic” love — the kind that is supposed to last forever but half the time doesn’t. One of the tidbits I recently read in an academic psychology magazine suggested that research showed that “romantic love” (undefined) lasts an average of 18 months. Perhaps, it was referring to lust. I never actually followed up on that because it rang very possible to me.

On another angle, I recently received the following answer, in all seriousness, to ‘What is love?’ from the male half of a 60 year plus marital union: “Love is always giving in to your partner.” Try passing that around at your next dinner party and let me know who starts the fireworks and how it turned out.

In a recent Sunday New York Times “VOWS” section, an inspirational love story about a couple who met through an Internet dating site, proceeded to find out “everything” about each other through e-mails because they were geographically distant and, after two years, finally met and — yay! — married!

Both had been widowed, she 85; he, 87. Cynic that I am, when I hear a story of such compatibility, I generally ask for a report on the relationship after about 20 years. Check mate!

I will not seriously address a recent New York Times article about people falling in love with their robots – presumably “programmed” to be the perfect mate — and the subsequent fallout of massive changes in sexual identity, suggesting the label “digisexual” — a discussion for another time.

But what I do know on a very visceral level is that between social media and the unstoppable coming of a profusion of A.I. gimmicks presumably on the market to enhance our lifestyle, human “touch” is on the wane and that is so very sad. A simple touch as an expression of love is losing its relevancy and, along with that, the intimacy of human contact.

Perhaps, Skype can fill that void for some people; but, for me, there is nothing like just plain holding hands and piercing the eyes – the tunnel into another soul. Love is so many things and its’ essence so differently defined and accepted by each of us.

I wish you bundles of whatever love is to you. Happy Valentine’s Day!

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

Seems like only yesterday that ’17 was gone

Now ‘18 too’s behind us like a marathon

All in all – not so good

Can’t wait for Version Hollywood

Crazy folks with guns ran wild

307 mass murders filed

Parkland survivors crammed the media

Some famous enough for Wikipedia

Politics up front till early November

A midterm turnaround to remember

Khashoggi the journalist wrote the truth

And the Saudis hacked him in his relative youth

The worst California fires, scientist says

And global warming denied by our prez

Families separated at the borders

Kids lost to parents at government orders

“Me-too”s have watched their numbers increase

Celebrities shamed as their names are released

Kavanaugh judged by the Ds and the Rs

Became a “Supreme” after hearings bizarre

Mueller team silent but guilty ones sentenced

The “Russian Probe” endless – few show repentance

Mattis resigns, as that “Tweet” was no “oops”

Defying advice, “T” said – “Bring home the troops”

The market went crazy as Christmas was near

The government shutdown caused even more fear

McCain and the Bushes revered in their death

Worshiped as never when they still had their breath

How fragile a country that depends on one life

When we learned that Ruth Ginsburg “went under the knife”

And now we are facing the year of nineteen

And only the Lord can predict that new scene.

By Emily Rosen

ERosen424@aol.com

www.emilyrosen424.com

It took me 70 years of Sundays — that’s 3,640 Sundays — to appreciate one of the greatest gifts I ever received. I finally remembered that it was Mr. Steinberg, my high school English teacher, whose only textbook that senior year was the Sunday New York Times — Mr. Steinberg, who gave me 3,640 (give or take) precious Sundays.

I remember now, that although our class took The Times apart and thoroughly examined it section by section, mostly, we actually studied the Book Review in the greatest depth. We learned to read reviews and to evaluate both the reviewer and the book reviewed. We talked about each “interview,” the quality of books on the bestseller list, those that were highly recommended by the editorial staff of the newspaper and even the advertisements for books yet to be published or previously reviewed. We were encouraged to choose books of our favorite genre and to write our own reviews.

Now, so belatedly, as I savor my Sunday morning book review read time, and find myself traveling all over the planet geographically, intellectually and spiritually, I am aware of how each issue is an education in itself. I see how each issue opens my mind to something new, and how even the genres to which I am least attracted offer another way to see the world and to see myself in it. And, by golly, each week I am swept away by how easy it is to get a genuine “high” without even a cup of coffee at my side — not that I am knocking coffee.

More and more, we are getting translations of especially fiction, ranking high on the list of new releases. There are writers from Africa, Asia and South and Central America sharing their culture and traditions, and stories opening doors for us to learn about people unlike us.

Of course, science, business, sports, government and all the arts are subjects to which many “someones” have devoted a major part of their lives, researching, opining and writing their hearts out. And it’s all so easily accessible in a morning read. Thank you again, Mr. Steinberg, for your indefatigable patience in, at first, forcing me to “study” the newspaper.

While we’re on the subject of intangible “gifts,” let us not forget our libraries, one of the greatest community assets ever conceived by man. If you are a really disciplined person, you can save a bunch of money on higher education tuition by organizing your own curriculum in a library.

But, since we are a consumer society, I’m guessing many of you already have your gift lists made and perhaps even at least half attended to. I’m hoping you have included books and some items that will challenge the minds of the young people — yes, even the old people — on your list. We can’t allow Google to do everything for us. We will soon be entrapped by A.I. (artificial Intelligence) in all aspects of our lives, and will be tempted to give into the laziness of thought which will follow.

This is too grim a note to leave you with so soon before an impending joyous holiday, so in all optimism I know that there are many Mr. (and Ms.) Steinbergs left in this world who are still willing to fight for one of our most precious rights – the right to think for ourselves.

Happy Holidays to all.