ANOTHER LIFETIME—CHICAGO, 1968

by Eleanor Jaffe

At my neighbor’s recent socially-distanced cocktail hour, there was talk of the upcoming conventions, and I heard myself say, “I was a delegate to the 1968 Democratic Convention.” a show-stopper statement. Impressed and surprised, the others look at me.  I, too, am surprised.  Me?  In another lifetime.  Picture this:

I’m 31 years old;  I have lived in Gallup, New Mexico for the past one and one-half years.  I have given birth, in January of that year, to our second child, a son, at the Gallup Indian Hospital.  It is now March. My older child celebrates her third birthday.  Each year for the past 6 years my husband and I have moved cross-country,  pursuing his career goals.  This year,  when my husband’s two years in the Public Health Service are complete, we will move once again–this time to Michigan.  Now we are a family of four poised to make another cross-country move.  At heart, I am a liberal New Yorker, radicalized like so many of my generation by the Vietnam War and the race riots roiling the U.S.  I have sent a $5.00 donation to the “Eugene McCarthy for President” campaign.  Turns out, I am the only person in all of McKinley County, New Mexico to have sent any donation to this campaign.

At the urging of a cadre (an advertising guy and a few nuns) of out-of-state organizers for the McCarthy campaign, I become “coordinator” for the “Eugene McCarthy for President” campaign in McKinley County.  Turns out I have a flair for this sort of thing. (Six years as an English teacher in NYC  must have helped.)

My “handlers” suggest organizing strategies with public health service people and with Navajos on the vast reservation, some of which is in New Mexico.  They recommend publicity-grabbing actions—accusing the local Dems of picking delegates to the State Democratic convention in Santa Fe on an unsanctioned date, etc.   I am surprised to discover that I am good at this!  We hold “legal” precinct meetings on and off the reservation on the prescribed date, the first time that a few precincts have met and voted on the Navajo reservation in New Mexico, and I end up leading a delegation of 36 from McKinley County to the State Democratic convention in mid-June.

Here is the “road not taken.”  At the convention, I am asked to run for New Mexico’s State Committeewoman.  I ask if it will matter that I am going to be living in Michigan in a few weeks?  It does matter.  I am not eligible.  But I am rewarded for my good work and become an alternate delegate to the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago that August. 

My husband and I leave our two babies with friends in Ann Arbor.  Armed with my delegate badge, we roam the increasingly dangerous streets, and I attend convention caucuses, meet Hubert Humphrey, enter the huge, raucous, smoke and noise filled convention hall.  (It doesn’t help that I have a killer of an ear infection, complete with swelling, pain, and pain killers. )

On the night when the presidential candidate is chosen, my husband and I are outside on the streets.  The rioting begins.  To our eyes, the armed riot police are the instigators.  When the demonstrators are unable to get a permit to march,  Mayor Daly orders his police force to attack and disperse them.  They attack with wooden clubs, in formation, roaring as they race into the crowd of unarmed young demonstrators.  We stand in the Conrad Hilton Hotel’s lobby, our faces pressed against the plate glass walls.  It’s hot, noisy, and alarming.    I want to stay and see the action.  I think my delegate’s badge will protect me.  It won’t.  My husband grabs my hand, and we run back to our hotel where we watch the mayhem on our t.v. screen, listening to the far-off police sirens, and Hubert Humphrey is chosen as the 1968 Democratic candidate .

In the morning, we examine the carnage left behind.  The plate glass windows of the Conrad Hilton Hotel have been smashed.  Upstairs, at McCarthy headquarters, young people, bleeding and bandaged, lay on the floor,  beaten by the police.  We leave Chicago and return to our babies, chastened.  I never pursue a political career.  That period of my life is over.

More than 50 years have passed.  I now marvel at the gutsy young woman I was, and I am grateful for that experience.  It has helped to form me and my opinions and some actions.  Part of me wishes I had stayed in New Mexico and become that State Democratic Committeewoman,  an adventure I did not think at the time that I could pursue.  Instead, I followed a more conventional path:  mother, housewife, teacher, social worker, counselor.  Sometimes, I have a flash of activism.  With Elaine  Dohan, I initiated  the “Make a Difference” special interest group at Bolli a few years ago.  I’d still like to “make a difference.”  Wouldn’t you?

Choosing a president this year will likely cause more widespread violence than what we witnessed in Chicago, 1968.  Now, as then, the fate of our democracy is at stake.  All of us must bear witness.  What actions will be effective in our strife-torn, pandemic ridden, democracy?  Now that we are so much older, are we any wiser or more effective?  Can we make a difference?

“As I grow older,” Eleanor says, “I am more interested in the conditions, changes, services, culture, and even politics affecting me, my husband of over 50 years, and my friends.”  To that end, she has led BOLLI study groups focused on aging, immigration, and more.  In addition, along with Elaine Dohan, she chairs BOLLI’s political action “Make a Difference” special interest group.

NEMESES

By Martin Kafka

It’s been a long time since we were children, and for many of us, including myself, I look back on that part of my life  during the early 1950’s with an unrequited longing and a micro-filtered recall of positive memories. So, from the vantage point of my current moment, it took a while to recall that our generation did face some very serious common nemeses.

Two related nemeses quickly came to mind: Communism and the threat of an atomic bomb.  Communism was an abstract concept for me as a 6-year-old. I was unaware of it as a formidable menace. As for nuclear war, I do remember air raid sirens and bomb shelter drills in school at P.S. 197 In Brooklyn.  I recognized even then, however, that hiding under my kindergarten table was not going to make any difference when the Bomb struck.

There was a third nemesis that I recall more personally, a threat posed by an invisible monstrosity that sought out children. It was a threat we all feared, and it must have been especially terrifying for our parents. It was an invisible menace that lurked amongst us like something out of the Steven King’s horror novel “It.” “It” was mostly dormant, patient, hidden, waiting for the right circumstances to strike. “It” had its preferences for warm weather, crowded spaces, and most especially, for defenseless children. “It” was an amorphous, pervasive, and alien creature that, if it could speak in a single voice, would likely malevolently growl, “Give me your children.”

Think summer camps, for example. When “It” struck, “It” could kill, but “It” was more likely to maim or cripple “Its” victims sadistically, as if “It” were engaged  in a vengeful war with us and wanted to slowly suffocate children to death.

I remember being a kid with my parents at a summer bungalow colony in New Jersey.  “It” struck one of the kids at summer camp. I don’t remember who, as he was not a particular friend of mine, but “It” showed no mercy. After “It” `struck and he died, we cowered in our bungalow, or my brother and I sheepishly played outside on our cabin’s front porch. We didn’t socialize with other kids or adults for several weeks. There was a foreboding silence amongst us, a cloud of fear that crippled our colony’s sense of community. Was there anything we could do? Would “It” strike again? Who might be “Its” next victims?

In 1952, an epidemic year, there were 58,000 new cases of “It” reported in the United States, and more than 3,000 died. It wasn’t until 1955, when I was an eight-year old kid, that I would anxiously look forward to a vaccination shot in my left arm.

Thank God for Jonas Salk.  This time, it was American science beckoning to us “Give me your children”– and we did.

FRIENDSHIP

By Sandy Miller-Jacobs

Friends play such an important role in our lives. When we were young, we played with our friends, whether it was games of pretend or riding bikes or playing sports.  Often, the time we spent with our friends enabled us to do something we couldn’t do alone. You might play Solitaire by yourself, but you couldn’t play Go Fish alone. Nor could you play any of your board games alone. Monopoly and Scrabble definitely needed at least one friend, if not two or three. A bike ride was always more fun when friends joined you to ride through the neighborhood. Sports, from “Hit the Penny” to tennis, always needed friends not only in order to play but also to cheer us on.

As we got older, our friends were there to spend time with, whether to talk, reminisce, or think up new adventures. A friend was there to help sort out our ideas, to dream with, to share our ups and downs, especially during our teen years. Through high school and college, we spent hours talking about people we dated, teachers who frustrated or challenged us, songs and singers we liked, our future lives.

While our friendship groups changed as some married, moved away, or ventured in directions we wouldn’t follow, there were always some who remained in our lives. These are the friends who knew us when we were young,  knew our homes, our parents, siblings, and even our cousins. They have served as reminders, knowing who we were and who we still are.  We have been there for each other as we have aged, and we still remember the younger versions of ourselves. They have seen us in the best and worst of times – through the joys of marriage and the pain of divorce, sharing the joys and difficulties of children and grandchildren, and supporting us through the deaths of loved ones.

It’s the friendships that last over time that remain the most important to us.  In many ways, they keep us centered. They know what upsets us and what brings us joy.  They know just what to say to raise or keep our spirits us.  They recognize the parts of us that have grown with us, and they reflect how we have matured over time.   Only our siblings and cousins may have the same sense of who we have been and who we have become.

So, make time to be with your friends as well as relatives whom you consider friends.  It’s reminiscent of a song from Girl Scouts: “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.”

Sandy finally retired after nearly 50 years in Special Education.  Along the way, she married, completed her doctorate, raised two daughters, married them off, and became a grandmother.  She says that BOLLI is the key to maintaining brain function through teaching and learning while meeting new friends. Her hobbies now include photography, memoir writing, and aging.  (She was instrumental in creating the SIG on Aging with Enthusiasm and Resilience.) Sometimes she takes the risk and shares her hobbies and ideas with BOLLI members!

DIGITALLY ARRANGED DINNER DATING

by Larry Schwirian

Writers Guild Prompt:  Dinner Date

I have never had occasion to go on a romantic dinner date with anyone other than my wife.  She and I were classmates and friends for three years before we started dating, so we already knew each other pretty well.  I never had to worry about what I could or couldn’t say with her because I already knew many of her likes and dislikes.  Plus, while we were still in school, there wasn’t a lot of money for going out to dinner anyway. Going out for pizza, taking a trip to the art museum, or going to an occasional movie were more typical of our dates. As I had a full class load and drove a cab part time while in school, I didn’t have a lot of time for dating anyway.

I’ve never given a great deal of thought to what it must be like, as a full-fledged adult, to sit down for a nice dinner with an unfamiliar female companion just for the sake of getting to know one-another…it must really be awkward.

Imagining what it might be like for a young adult in today’s digital world, all kinds of questions come to mind…

Who wrote the algorithm that paired the two of us as compatible, and what were the primary traits or answers to questions that resulted in this pairing?  Did she research me on the web and find out what a dweeb I really am…I hope she at least learned that I’m not a direct descendent of Jack the Ripper.  I Googled her, but my search gave me dozens of women with the same name. Why did she pick me instead of dozens of others…or was it the algorithm? Should I be my normal, boring self, or should I pretend to be what I’d really like to be?  Was the photo she sent really of her?  Was it current,  or was it ten years old?  Should I let her start the conversation, or should I be bold and jump right in with both feet? Is she looking for a significant other, or is she just looking for a good time?  And what am I looking for?

Maybe we should begin the conversation by agreeing on a “safe word” that will allow either of us to bail-out if questions become too personal.

Why am I doing this?

I don’t envy young people.  Dating–along with everything else these days–has just become too complicated.

Architect Larry and his fellow architect wife Caroline live in an historic preservation home in Newton and have led BOLLI courses on architecture.  Larry has been an active participant in and leader of the Writers Guild special interest group as well as serving on the BOLLI Journal staff.  

METEOROLOGISTS

by Donna Johns

They’re at it again.

Hunkered in my recliner, I was cheerfully wasting an hour immersed in General Hospital. Will Sonny and Carly’s baby be all right, or does it have birth defects? When will they discover that baby Wiley, adopted by Brad and Dylan, is actually Michael’s son? And who pushed Liesel off the boat during Liz and Franco’s wedding?

Then it starts. Frantic Breaking News music. The meteorologist on duty quivers in excitement, his voice an octave higher than normal. “We are interrupting this broadcast to warn you of a string of thunderstorms bearing down on us.”

No kidding. It’s 90 degrees out, and you can cut the humidity with a knife. Of course there are going to be thunderstorms. That’s why I ran my errands early and planned on a quiet hour in Port Charles, watching characters with big problems to be unraveled and solved in six months.

Anyone who’s been on the planet for a few years knows from personal experience that heat and humidity mean that thunderstorms will follow.  So, pray tell, what new information do you have to impart to me,  Mr. Meteorologist?

“The storms are forming in Western Massachusetts.”  Yep. They usually do.

“Strong winds, torrential downpours, thunder, and lightning.”  Sounds like a thunderstorm to me.

“The storms will move east through Worcester and Central Massachusetts. They should arrive in the Boston area by four o’clock.”  Marginally useful information. So I should be able to finish General Hospital before the storms hits and the power fails. Candle, lighter, and flashlight are on the table, just in case.

“There may be power outages. Prepare with candles and flashlights.”  Duh.  Can I watch my soap opera now?

Mr. Meteorologist’s voice begins to shake slightly.  I swear his upper lip is trembling. “There is a chance of flash flooding. Also tornadoes.”  He looks anxiously at his radar screen.  Despite my abundant common sense, I quickly check to make sure I have sufficient toilet paper, milk, and bread to survive the coming apocalypse.

“We will update you as the situation warrants.  And now, we return you to our regular programming.” Finally! After four commercials designed for the elderly (reverse mortgages, laxatives, life insurance, compression stockings), General Hospital resumes.

Ten minutes later, at 2:30, the thunderstorm moves into Waltham.  Mr. Meteorologist reappears as thunder shakes the windows and lightning illuminates the living room. “The storms should reach the greater Boston area by 4:00.”

I turn the TV off.

I long for the good old days when Don Kent would check his barometer, poke his head out the door to scan the skies, and deliver a calm and mostly accurate weather forecast.  Those days, alas, are gone for good. Now we have computer models, hysterical meteorologists, and wildly inaccurate forecasts.

Donna is a teacher/librarian, writer of unpublished romance novels, sometime director of community theater and BOLLI member. She has two fantastic faux knees which set off the metal detectors at Fenway Park.

MEASLES

by Bobbe Vernon

Last week, my 22-month old great-grandson Carter erupted in an itchy rash, head to toe.  He was miserable!  And I immediately thought about measles.   He had had his first measles shot, but two are required, and he is not yet old enough for the second shot.  And how would such a young child contract the disease these days anyway?

Unfortunately, today, more American children are contracting mumps, measles, and rubella than they have for decades.  And one reason seems to be  the misguided, incorrect belief of some parents that vaccinations can cause autism.

This episode reminded me of my own experiences with measles. When I was in the seventh grade, my younger brother Stevie came down with measles.  I caught it from him, and so did our mother, even though she had had measles as a child.   And despite being sick, she got out of bed to scrub the entire bathroom before our beloved pediatrician Dr. Green made that house call.  Even he couldn’t understand how she could have contracted the disease after having had it as a child.

A year later, Stevie contracted measles again.   Dr. Green said he wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen my brother’s first case with his own eyes.  At the time, I was in the eighth grade, and, as a serious student, I did not want to be quarantined with my brother.  So that I wouldn’t miss school, I stayed at my Aunt Clara’s house while Stevie was ill, but Dr. Green warned, in no uncertain terms, that, if I felt that I was getting sick, I was to go straight home instead of to my aunt’s house after school.  Yup, that happened!  Mommy, Stevie,  and I were the only people he had ever heard of who had measles more than once.   I still feel guilty that his son Dicky, who sat next to me in school, caught the measles from me…

At any rate, it turned out that my great grandson Carter did not have the measles after all, and he is back at his Montessori school, where he probably contracted his itchy virus in the first place.  We can now stop worrying that baby Tucker, who is one month old, will catch the measles from his big brother!

“18 months after my husband passed away, I heard about BOLLI and decided to try something new .  That was in 2008, and I have been taking classes and enjoying new friends at BOLLI ever since. In the past, I have been a dressmaker, a math teacher, and, since 1976, I have been with Mary Kay Cosmetics (driving my Mary Kay pink Buick!), still not ready to stop making people feel great about themselves.”

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE UNITED STATES AND ITS HISTORY

By Mark Seliber

I took 12 weeks away from BOLLI (and the rest of my regular life) this spring and traveled all around the United States.  If I were writing a detailed book about my journey, it’s working title would be:

     America: the Beautiful, the Stolen, the Resourceful,                            and the Generous

Here is a brief summary of what I gathered from my trip.

THE BEAUTIFUL

This is a great-looking country, and I’m glad I got to see so much of it in person.  The 48 contiguous states have land area similar to Europe, Canada, China, Brazil and Australia but, I suspect, more diverse terrain and features than all of them.  The mountains, canyons, plains, deserts, lakes, rivers, and coastlines are amazing.

THE STOLEN

A couple of years ago, I read an op-ed that attributed a large portion of this country’s historically great economic production to two thefts: land from the indigenous peoples and over two centuries of labor from African slaves.  I certainly saw much evidence of this in my travels.  The latter, from a long list of civil rights sites I visited – in particular, the Underground Railroad Center for Justice in Cincinnati, which laid out in great detail the history of the slave trade in North America, going all the way back to the first group of slaves sold by Portuguese traders in Jamestown Virginia in 1619.  The story of European and later United States appropriation of the ancestral lands of our first inhabitants also started in Jamestown.  I followed this thread throughout my travels–the French and Indian Wars and conflicting loyalties during the Revolutionary War; the Trail of Tears as native tribes were sent west of the Mississippi once the new United States expanded beyond the Appalachians; the further relocation of most of the tribes to Oklahoma Territory when the Homestead Act made the land in the Great Plains valuable; and finally the discovery of gold in the only remaining sovereign native land (the Black Hills of South Dakota), which led to Little Big Horn, Wounded Knee, Indian reservations, and boarding schools for native children where their culture and language was forbidden.

THE RESOURCEFUL – NATURAL RESOURCES AND GREAT INVENTIVENESS

The land of the United States certainly was blessed with abundant natural resources–salt, coal, iron ore, natural gas, oil, the fertile soil of the Great Plains, abundant forests for timber, gold, silver, copper, uranium, borax, and all kinds of other minerals.  And the American people quickly learned how to use all of these to their economic advantage.

A partial list of the great ideas invented or further developed by the ingenious and entrepreneurial minds of our countrymen and women includes:

The steamship, the cotton gin,  canals (like the Erie), the railroad, mechanical farming, mining, anesthesia (at Mass General), the telegraph, electricity, the telephone, the phonograph,  automobiles, assembly lines, airplanes, radios, radar, nuclear power (for better or worse), television, space exploration (including, of course, that moon landing we’re commemorating this month), and just about everything related to computers, the world wide web, the internet, smart phones, and artificial intelligence.

THE GENEROUS

In the last hundred years, as the most powerful nation on earth, the United States has been generous in supporting democracy around the world.  Entering World War I helped end the stalemate on the Western Front.  The United States supported Great Britain’s solo stand against Nazi Germany through the Lend-Lease program in 1940-1941 and then, of course, joined World War II after Pearl Harbor, helping to turn the tide in Europe with the D-Day invasion of 75 years ago.  Then after the War, the Marshall Plan enabled war-ravaged Europe to rebuild itself, and NATO and the United Nations managed to end the first Cold War.

But I witnessed the benefits of great things that our government has done to improve our lives over our history.  Again, here’s a list:

Public education (starting with my two alma maters, Boston Latin School and Harvard), land-grant colleges and universities, the Homestead Act (not so good for native peoples but good for settlers heading west for economic opportunity and independence), the transcontinental railroad, our national parks, canals and dams, and all the building done by the Civilian Conservation Corps as well as the WPA during the New Deal, Social Security and Medicare, the GI Bill for Education and low-cost housing loans after World War II, and the Interstate Highway System.

Individually and collectively, the people and government of the United States of America have done amazing things in the last nearly 250 years.  I remain confident that we have many more wonders in our future.

Mark, a native of Boston, worked as an actuary for 35 years and retired in 2017.  He immediately joined BOLLI with his wife Rachel and has thrown himself into classes, performing in the theatrical productions, and writing presentations.

MY BIRTHDAY DREAM

By Lois Sockol

It is the morning of my 86th birthday, and I open my eyes to a shower of  sunshine.  ‘Tis early.  No need to rise yet. Sinking still deeper into my pillow,  I close my eyes.  I’m walking in a forest, down a path awash in light.  Ahead of me is a giant oak. It is not until I approach that I notice that it’s bowed crown is draped in unseasonably yellowed leaves.  Deep, letter-like gashes mark its trunk R-O-N.  I wrap my arms around its bole and feel it pulsing.

Circling the venerable oak are four clusters of pines.  At the center of each is a strong regal twosome overlooking less mature pines. Letters are etched into the base of each.  I know their names.  It is a heartwarming, comforting site, the four clusters jointly surrounding, guarding the elderly oak.

I hug each before I continue, almost skippingly, down the path.  A bit further, to my right, stands an arch of trees reminiscent of a Temple. A powerful stream of light flows my way.  More tree clusters, all shapes and manner, surround me.  I peer more closely, stroking each trunk. Tall and firm stand my friends, a lifetime of playmates, companions, and soulmates.

Suddenly, a clearing appears.  A large lake, its translucent water shimmering before me.  I peer into its silvery blue surface. From its depth float figures, reaching almost to its surface.  My mother rises, her large blue eyes shining, her laughter bubbling up.  Beside her, his strong arm about her shoulders,  my father waves to me with his free hand.  He, too, is laughing.  But how can that be?  “No, no wait, don’t go,” I cry, my eyes locked to the spot as my parents sink back into the depths.  Almost immediately, my dear sister Ellen appears, taken from me too soon, before I had a chance to tell how much I loved her. She , too, now  laughs and reaches out to me. I lean forward to take her disappearing hand.

Within a breath, everything disappears.  I lose everything–my family, my friends, the forest, the lake, all gone.

I pull myself up from the floor where I lay next to my bed. Unhurt, just a bit achy. Why, why had my mind concocted such a fantasy?  What is my subconscious trying to tell me?  That surely we would meet again? That there is time to change the things I want to change?

The sound of the phone cuts through my thoughts.  Both phones, my cell and land line, calling to me simultaneously.

“Happy Birthday, Mom. We love you.”  Repeated again.  “Happy Birthday, Mom, we love you.”

All through the day, a bouquet of calls from grandchildren and sons. And I embrace them all.

Before night falls, I drive to my favorite walking spot, Cutler Park, where a forest of trees surrounds a large fresh water lake.  I smile. 86, like any age, new beginnings, new ending, choices.

Lois says, “I’ve been blessed with a marriage of 65 years.  We raised four boys we are proud of and  enjoy the reward of 9 grandchildren. Professionally, I taught public school for 25 years, published an instructional manual to aid teachers in teaching children who are high risk for learning to read, and conducted seminars on the teaching of reading. I have been active in my town of Needham as a Library Trustee and a Town Meeting member for 36 years.  And now, I have the joy of being a member of BOLLI!

THE PONY RIDE

By Barry David

The ring was oval-shaped, and we stood about midway on one side watching the ponies.  It was a glorious fall day. We were in no rush.

My granddaughter held my hand.  She had not yet decided about having a ride; it’s scary to try something new.  So we waited as she carefully appraised each pony as it passed by with its mounted child.

There were brown ones and black ones, some with mixed colors, and others with patterns.

I wondered what she was thinking.   Was she intimidated by them, simply afraid, or was she considering what color pony she’d like to ride?  What goes through a four-year-old’s head?  Lots!

“Would you like a ride?” I asked her.

“Yes,” was her reply, and there was no question about it.

“But I don’t want to ride on a big pony.”

“Okay,” I assured her.

“But I don’t want a small pony.”

“Oh,” I mumbled.  Where was this outing going?

In silence, we watched a few more go by and then, she said, “Papa, I want to ride on a medium pony.”

“Okay!”

A medium pony.  Not too big or too small.  Moderation.  And, given the times we are in as a nation, not too far left or right.

The extremes we deal with each day can make most of us uncomfortable whether in a pony ring or in politics.  Whether we are four or eighty-four, white or black, male or female, conservative or progressive, we are all simply part of the human web that connects us.

When faced with complex choices, compromise most often points the way to a lasting solution.   Sounds pretty basic, and it is.  Not rocket science, if egos are parked at the door.

Too many of our leaders need to get off their donkeys or elephants and mount a ring full of medium ponies.  If they just go on pony ride, they will help us all get “there” faster and “fairer.”  If not, we need to send them home on their donkeys or elephants, never to return.  We can’t allow any leader’s ego and dated ideology to screw up what can be a good pony ride for America.

And, oh, yes!  The pony ride—on a medium, light brown and white pony—was a great success.

Barry says that he and his wife Liz began taking courses at BOLLI “almost from the beginning while winding down my career in the computer field as GM of ADP.  Love taking subjects that I’ve not had exposure to before.  Being snowbirds, we’re delighted that spring semester is build the five-week offerings.  BOLLI has been and remains an important part of our life.”