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Passing On The Baton or Get Out of My Toilet Bowl!

I awoke the other night, shouting, "Get off my toilet , I picked that beige bowl out. I searched plumbing stores to find it, and now you are sitting on my seat. I cleaned the inside diligently - get off- YOU CAN"T HAVE It."

Last week I dreamed I took my red broom and poked her in the stomach, hit her over the head and pushed her out my rear door. "This is my home, get out!"

But it wasn't my home anymore - we had sold it.

The old decaying New York apple tree is being replaced by a tall stately Florida palm. The paradise I once only envisioned was now touchable. My hand stroked the huge palm tree beneath our bedroom window. The roughness imprinted my dream with reality.

My husband, Mel and I have finally discovered peace, serenity. When we chose the location for our new home we jokingly called it plot 49. "No," chuckled our salesman " it's lot 49."

But to us it was plot 49, our heaven.

How could we leave 37 years of accumulations? Birthday cards, poems, notes from our children's teachers, and even a few congratulation certificates for us, now had to be discarded.

"All this trash," my 35 year old son scorned as I flipped through the letters Mel sent when he was in the Korean War. To me, rereading my three sons' letters from college expanding on political issues or describing their new love, could never be considered trash.

How does a depression era mom suddenly throw out her sons' trophies or their Rembrandts from kindergarten we had framed - or my bridal gown.

How does this mom who would rather make pot roast than have her nails manicured, suddenly discard her baton. "Let them compose their own music, play their own songs," my husband urged me.

But it wasn't that simple. Nightmares set in, I cried. I tried to

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picture my new lovely home in a more relaxed climate, but my Seder plate and Yom Kippur break-fast kept creeping in.

What had I done? The baton I wanted to pass on kept sticking to my wrinkled fingers, like the putty we used to seal the cracks on our worn out windows. The soft music I wanted my children to compose became the sounds of percussion drums.

My grandson's big blue tearful eyes said it all. "Grams, do you like your friends in Florida better than me? Where will we have Seder? My mom's table isn't big enough." Or, "why didn't you tell me gramps needed help with the house? I would have come over and

raked the leaves."

How can a 66 year old grandma answer? I couldn't. I begged my husband to repurchase our home. He was furious, "For a few dinners a year, give up our chance for a slower, easier life, clean air. What about us? How many more years do we have? Honey this is our chance - no more half dormers {when we expanded our small cape cod home we could only afford half dormers). No more choosing the floor coverings because they were on sale. With the money we receive from selling up north, we can buy our dream home. Honey, I always wanted a garage, we can now afford a double one."

But was it the material comforts that made him want to move or-

"When do we go dancing up north," Mel questioned me. "Or go to a movie where the theater has soft plush velvet seats without chewing gum. When do we put on formal clothes, go to a party, or drive to the opera without the hassle of the Manhattan traffic? Honey, the kids will write their own scripts and play the parts they choose. Let them."

My palm trees now became weeping willows and I became extremely depressed. My doctor laughed, "Oh all you women are alike, you come in here crying when you sell. You'll get over it. Stop driving your husbands nuts. They'll get a heart attack and then what. Here's a prescription for some tranquilizers."

But what about us, aren't women important. What about our feelings. How does someone cope with this loss. It's real, and hurts hard.

No one wanted to hear me. "You should be thankful you can afford this." Friends who were not moving couldn't understand. "Stop your whining, you aren't going to a shelter for the homeless." I felt like I was eating chocolate cake and complaining that there was no whipped cream.

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I started to count the hours I spent in my kitchen, cleaning my bathroom, cooking dinners. I counted the hours my husband was actually inside the house. He probably had spent more time, or at least equal time in his office than in our home. I realized it"

probably had been harder for him to leave his job. How could he understand my feelings?

I decided to expose my dreams or lack of dreams, my nightmares.

I timidly questioned other women who had relocated. It seemed like they had been waiting for my questions. Waiting for someone to inquire how they felt. No one had ever asked.

Women began to bare their hearts like lifting a bandage and exposing a deep wound. "It took time for us to adjust, there is no one out there to talk to." So now lets talk-"

"Cleaning my basement," Doris laughed, "You could have chosen between becoming a doctor, lawyer or mechanic. All my kids text books, thrown out. I must have shipped $3,000 worth of memories to my children in Seattle, and then we shipped twelve cartons more.

Another friend just answered,"horrendous."

Her granddaughter had asked her," Who will make the latkes? Who will light the Chanukah Menora?"

Gilda hugged me, "The only thing that saved me was to buy a little place to hang my hat. My daughter's home was small. No closets for my clothes. What was I supposed to do, come in layers? Nightgown, underwear, rinse, wash and put them on again." She hugged me tighter, " Find something, somewhere, Bobbie, close to the grand kids. You must. Reassure them, you will not leave them."

"It took me two years to pass my house. To say good bye to it, and realize that I don't live here any more." Joan told me. "My lantern that lit up the driveway for thirty two years was now cracked and the light was out."

She had sobbed to her husband, "It's not my house, let's go home."

"I get airplane tickets often," confessed Shirley.

Nancy chimed, "I go up and bring them down. Cost me a lot, but it's the money we were leaving them that I'm spending."

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"Every time I go to a motel instead of staying with my daughter in law, I say, Thank you kids for paying." Gloria smiled, "After all it is coming out of their inheritance."

Jane whispered, " Between tears, she asked her husband, "Where will our grand kids play now?"

Casually, he responded, "in the park."

Are men really from Mars, are we really from Venus?"

Before we left New York, Natalie called from Manhattan, "Bobbie, I'm coming over this afternoon. Murray and I will join you and Mel for dinner tonight. But this afternoon we're cleaning out your clothes closet. We'll make packages for the Yeshiva, your long dresses will go to the orthodox women. I'll help. Remember I moved from our home of forty years last year . I promised myself I would never allow a friend to go through sorting her clothes alone."

Nat came and we laughed. "Look how thin I once was!" My brocade dress, size seven for Gary's Bar Mitzvah stared at me as if it was asking for a new home. My wool hats, coats, scarfs all went to the Chabad. Without Natalie a piece of my heart would have been discarded between my fur lined leather gloves.

Our cousins called,"We're coming up for a few days to pack your breakables. Help you dispose of things. Remember we just did it last year - let us help."

The support team was superb, A friend of thirty years called, "Happy New Year. So when you getting down here ? I need my big sister."

The calls kept coming from Florida. And the calls from our friends in New York, "We're watching you, we're scared. Not ready yet, but ...." And then the deep pause on the phone.

How do I answer my grandson, Evan? "No, I don't like my friends better than you. You are my world, but you must have your interests. You are the bright star in my sky, I am your background. I will always be there for you, no matter where I am, on this earth or in heaven."

But no longer am I there to help with the homework, or "Ah" over a good grade. Is that cocktail party more important than the joy of seeing my grandson run to show me his A on a test?"

My sons said, "You're selfish, mom, to want to keep the house. How can you allow Dad to worry about the water pipes freezing, or pruning the trees? What if he got a heart attack or stroke? You"

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know your cousin died just last week, pruning his trees."

But what about my feelings?

I had attended seminars on how to sell your home. The real estate agents, bankers, lawyers and architects gave convincing speeches, but no one ever discussed the emotional aspect.

Perhaps a university could take a survey, a questionnaire to gramps and grams rating the pleasurable moments of their graying"

years. Where would tennis and golf rank verses making chocolate cookies for the school Grandparents Day?

Are men really from Mars, are we from Venus?"

We are leaving for Florida. The tears have stopped, but the nightmares haven't. As we pay the toll exiting the Florida Turnpike, perhaps they should issue invitations to a grandmothers meeting- where we can just talk about our anxieties.

Our Long Island homes were tired homes. They needed new life. The lawns were thirsty for someone who preferred refreshing them instead of playing tennis. The ping pong table invited new players.

But my kitchen still beckoned me to make Passover dinner. I am not ready to relinquish my Seder Plate. Sure, I'll have gefilte fish for my friends in my shiny new kitchen but without my grandchildren arguing over who will read the four questions first, it will never be My Passover dinner.

Unless, we put everything in a freezer chest, including my broken heart, and bring it back to my children up north-"

If their baton is synchronized with ours-

And they are composing similar melodies to the ones we so diligently taught them. Hoping that one day the Jewish Heritage we so strongly hold dear to us will become part of their music.