Inky's summer vacation

Word Play

Mondegreen

There is actually a word for misheard lyrics. It comes from a 17th century ballad The Bonnie Earl O' Murray:

Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands,
Oh, where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl Amurray,
And laid him on the green

Sylvia Wright coined the word after hearing the last line as "Lady Mondegreen."

We had a Motown collection CD that I used to play in the car for the boys. I almost drove off the road when I heard Hart singing, "Keep Away!" for Heat Wave. Burning in my heart!

Aptonym

I only recently learned this word. I know the concept as Nomen est omen, "Your name is your fate," as in the veterinarian practice of Drs. Byrd, Fish and Katz. Working in a library for many years, I came to know both a Mrs. Reeder and a Ms. Reading, now sadly divorced and using her original, unremarkable name. There is also the famous winning poker player, John Moneymaker.

I used to collect aptonyms if I saw an interesting one in print, but I stopped when I found the Holy Grail; a name so perfect and appropriate that I realized I would never find another of its caliber. The name of the spokeswoman for the then-new Disneyland Taiwan, as quoted in the Chicago Tribune--and I am not making this up--was Winnie Pu.

Doubles

Yo Yo Ma and Boutros Boutros-Ghali are in a restaurant. Boutros Boutros-Ghali asks the waiter, "How's the Mahi Mahi?" "So so." "Then I better have the steak tartare."

Yo Yo Ma says, "I have to fly to Walla Walla for a concert, I will just have the baba ganoush."

English doesn't have many of these alliterative doubles. Ping pong, Beri Beri? But Hebrew has lots. It has been a long time since my Hebrew-speaking days, but I used to delight in working them into casual conversation. It would have been a challenge to get all the ones I know into a single exchange though.

pilpel=pepper
dikdook=grammar
shilshool=diarrhea
koom koom=kettle
sof sof=finally
reesh roosh=the sound of water

Flash of insight

This morning, when Hart was up at 5am and rampaging around the house, I asked what he did at the hospital when that happened.

"They told me to go back in my room."

I asked why he could not do that when he is home.

"They had adequate staff there."

I guess that about sums it all up.

8th grade graduates (photos)

Good Night

I have sleep apnea. At least, I think I do. Every few months, without warning, I'll jolt into consciousness, gasping and gulping for air like some strange undersea creature washed ashore from Dreamland. The third time it happened I realized, in my bleary and confused state, that this was possibly "something wrong."

Sensible humans would have hied themselves to a doctor for consultation, but unless my ailments are unsightly or of a digestive nature, I don't bother. Instead, I mentioned it casually to my friend M. M is an EMT, a Red Cross instructor and he is certified for civil disasters. Should there be an earthquake, plane crash, or bloody nose, M is the go-to guy. I asked slyly, "Can someone die of sleep apnea? Like, if they don't actually wake up to breathe?" "People certainly do," M told me emphatically.

But it seems so unlikely. For years, I have been jolted awake, wheezing and gasping, but clearly alive. Yet at any time, I could be jolted into the hereafter. "Well, that was a weird dream," I imagine myself announcing on my arrival. "Someone was holding my head under water. Hey, what the--!?"

Sleep is so intimate, so individual. One can safely assume that most humans have sex in the same way: But no two people have the same dreams. Not since summer camp (with its communal showers) has anyone ever seen me sleeping. I can only suspect that it isn't pretty. Once I fell asleep on a train in Israel and I awoke to find an entire Israeli Defense Force platoon competitively throwing spitballs into my mouth. I have since learned a trick from Jeff, who sleeps cocoon-like, with a sheet covering himself entirely. Jeff takes the phrase "sleep tight" literally.

So I do not relish the thought of a night at the hospital, hooked up with electrodes, slobbering and thrashing around for any curious medical resident to watch on closed circuit TV. But I don't relish waking up DEAD either, so I may need a second opinion.

My Greatest Influence

“Oh, good, he’s asleep. All I have to do is relax and watch TV,” I thought to myself as Hart’s mother went to pick up his twin. Suddenly, a little boy came trampling down the stairs at full speed. We hadn’t been formally introduced and, at ten, I wasn’t sure what to do. “Does he understand English? Is he going to start crying?” the thoughts raced through my head, while this little six-year-old boy just stood there in his Spiderman t-shirt observing me like I was an alien.

“Your mom just went out to pick up your brother, but she will be home soon. Do you want to play a game?” The little boy turned and ran frantically back up the stairs. This was the beginning of my relationship with the boys across the street. The first time their mom told me they were “special” I assumed she was just bragging about her children. It wasn’t until years later that I truly understood the full meaning of that phrase.

People assume that for a person to influence you, they must be older and wiser. In this case, they are neither, Hart and Jeff are not older, wiser, nor one person, yet they have been the greatest influence on my life. Through them I have learned compassion, patience and how to help others. Since the beginning, the boys have encountered problems many of us will never face. Being adopted from Russia at the age of two and later being diagnosed with fetal alcohol syndrome, they have opened up a world I would otherwise never have known. They have taught me never to judge and to accept people for who they are.

The twins have always been in special schools. Learning new tasks takes the boys longer because they lack concentration and need repetition. Because of these disabilities, it was necessary for me to develop patience. Like “normal” children, the boys manage to get into mischief, be it fighting with each other in the backseat or breaking their toys, but unlike normal children the boys cannot stop themselves without intervention.

Hart and Jeff have a hard time listening. When I get frustrated with them and lose my temper, they don’t understand why. Because it is a key element in sustaining peace, I have gained a considerable amount of patience. Jeff’s favorite game is pretending he is a bus driver. He gives each child that comes on his bus candy and a new toy. Yes, this is in his imagination, but the generosity is genuine. His ambition is to build houses for children who are homeless. The boys care for all those around them and appreciate what they have. As their father said at their Bar Mitzvah, “the boys want to help others because they have seen how much help was given to them.” From their example, I have learned that compassion can bring happiness not only to others but to you as well.

Every year the boys go to a special camp for a week. After learning about this camp, I volunteered to be a counselor. Unable to get into the children’s camp, I worked the week for mentally handicapped adults. My campers were two young women with Down syndrome; my assignment was to be their caregiver and constant companion at swimming, dancing, eating and having fun together. It was difficult at first, but by the end of the camp, I was glad I had volunteered. Being there made our campers feel like normal people; no one stared or made rude comments. The barriers between special and normal disintegrated as the week went on until we all viewed each other as friends. Through my introduction into Hart and Jeff’s world, I have grown as a human being and have learned the fulfillment of helping others and the rewards of giving of my time and of myself.

This past January I accompanied the boys to the Special Olympics. As I watched one compete in figure skating and the other in speed skating, I realized not only how proud I was of them, but also that this journey we took together has allowed all of us to grow. As Hart was putting on his Dracula cape for his solo, he turned to me and said, “Tahra, I’m glad you came with us”. That’s a long way from running up the stairs in fear.

______________ Tahra E., our neighbor and longtime caregiver, wrote this essay for her college application. Reprinted with Tahra's generous permission.

In order to quell recent comments that perhaps I have only one child as very few people have ever seen Hart and Jeff together, I offer proof.

Lost Landmark

The "Dragon" at Old Orchard Mall. Hart's column is on the right.

Our Chamber of Commerce has yet to develop the Visitor's Guide to Hart-and-Jeff High Jinks, but it certainly could. There is the Edens overpass where the boys were once found throwing their shoes off onto passing cars below. Our local parochial school principal found the boys in the bushes, after seeing two naked butts outside his office window at 6am on a cold January morning. In front of Walker School, a good Samaritan stopped to summon police after noticing a barefoot kid running down the sidewalk. (He was supposed to be a winter day camp during Christmas break.)

The best-known of these historical landmarks is affectionately known as the Hart Memorial Column at Old Orchard Mall. Mall management is probably still marveling at this one. Old Orchard Mall, now Westfield Shoppingtown Old Orchard, is one of the earliest malls. Built in 1955, it was novel because of its suburban location, its size, and, get this--it was outdoors. By the time we bought our house less than a mile away from the mall, Old Orchard was in decline. It had become a utilitarian collection of nondescript brick buildings. To get from store to store, shoppers traversed poured-concrete walkways. There was the prerequisite Paul Harris, Casual Corner and Spencer Gifts. Two venerable Chicago institutions, Montgomery Wards and Marshall Field's, had anchor stores there.

About fifteen years ago, Old Orchard underwent a significant renovation. The signage was modernized using a fruit theme. (orchard=fruit, get it?) The whole mall was beautifully landscaped and spruced up. Latticework cladding camouflaged the unsightly structural pillars. Restaurants added outdoor seating in nice weather. Loewes cinemas came. Welcome additions were architectural features for kids: a maze, playground, AND the "Dragon," an undulating, hilly, climby-thing with concrete serpent heads at the ends. In short, Old Orchard became a "destination," not only for shopping, but for cultural events, restaurants, movies and just strolling around.

One balmy summer evening, a number of years ago, we found ourselves standing on the periphery of the Dragon watching the boys run off some steam and observing carefully for any injury to unfortunate toddlers in their path. I am sure that of all the visitors to the mall, none had ever noticed that there is a small gap at the bottom of the latticework columns. No one, until Jeff. In a nanosecond, he had slipped underneath and was climbing up the inside of the pillar. Immediately, we rushed over and, sticking our hands through the openings, shoved him back out. BUT, in that same nanosecond that we were preoccupied with Jeff, Hart slid into the adjacent column and made it all the way to the top, about ten feet up.

There was nothing to do except stand casually near the column and hiss urgently for him to climb down. But he wouldn't or couldn't. Heads were beginning to turn my way. "I'll watch you. Climb down the same way you went up," I coaxed. It was no use. I was aware that none of the other children were moving anymore. I trotted away to the Food Court to alert security. When I returned, there were now about one hundred people, all chins turned up toward the column where one could just make out Hart's glasses glinting in the sun. Enter the Keystone Kopps. The first ladder was much too short, so the maintenance men were summoned for a longer ladder. (Gray Squirrel, Gray Squirrel, come in. We have a Code Yellow at the Dragon. Do you read me, Gray Squirrel?)

By now, passersby had stopped to join the crowd and watch the drama unfold. But the masses grew restive. "Why wasn't anyone looking after him?" "What is going on?" "Who are the parents?" I shrugged, as if to concur that the kid's parents surely must be complete incompetents.

At long last, the maintenance guys got up on top of the lintel and pried open the column's cap. In a scene reminiscent of Simba the Lion King's introduction at Pride Rock, they lifted Hart triumphantly into the air to show to the cheering crowd. Then we slunk away in shame and did not return to the Dragon for two years.

Last week, on one of the first warm days of the season, Hart and I ate at Corner Bakery and decided to wander around and enjoy the unusual weather. Passing the Dragon, which was teaming with children, I noticed: THE LATTICEWORK IS GONE. I scanned up and down the walkways. All the columns are denuded of their camouflage. We inspected more closely. The concrete bases are still there and the heavy-duty bolts which held the latticework are still visible, but sheared off smoothly. Gone, all of them.

My brief notion was that some other child had tried the same trick. The Westfield CEO had screamed into his phone, "That's the second time in ten years some kid has done that. Get rid of those things before we are slapped with a lawsuit." Of course, that's impossible. No kid other than mine would ever try that stunt.

Just change and progress. Marshall Field's is now Macy's. Montgomery Ward's location is now a Nordstrom's. Old Orchard has an A/X now. Probably no one has even noticed that the columns were changed a month or so ago. Except me.

Fun at JRC Kallah/retreat (photos)

Jeff gets a tefillin lesson (photo)

The World's Most Adorable Niece (photo)

Don't Ask

Last winter, when I went on a cruise with my mom, brother and Hart, my mother and I made a pact when we arrived in our stateroom: I would not criticize her appearance (as I am wont to do) and she was not to ask me questions (as it seems everyone is wont to do). As a result, it was a delightful holiday.

With apologies to Bill Clinton, I would like to adopt this policy: Don't Ask, Don't Ask. Why? I feel besieged by questions, all kinds of questions from all kinds of sources. I may blow a fuse at any time.

I have to answer medical questions; questions from teachers and therapists, and I must do so accurately and to the best of my ability. There is no evading it. How old were the boys when they arrived? Did you know they had disabilities? What is their medical history? What is their current diagnosis? What medication do they take? I have answered these questions from professionals so often that I can't stand the sound of my own voice. As of now, there is a moratorium on curious amateurs getting thoughtful answers.

There are legions of unanswerable questions. Why did he do that? What does he want? What caused that outburst? Sometimes I want to scream that I AM NOT A MIND-READER! I don't have a clue either!

Over the years, I have developed a few tricks and I avoid situations that are bound to end in disaster. I just hate explaining my reasoning over and over again. They are twins: why don't they go to the same school? Why do you have only one with you? Do they fight? Do they get along? Do they share a bedroom? Who is easier? Sure, these questions seem innocuous enough, but I don't have the same patience for explaining that I did ten years ago.

Jeff speaks elliptically and Hart tends to go off on unrelated tangents: either way the listener tends to tilt her chin, furrow her brow and look at me to translate. I know how hard it is to carry on a conversation with them, but I know of no shortcuts. I, too, have to say, "What do you mean?" or "Say that more slowly and clearly." In fact, sometimes I ask, "Are we having a conversation or are you just talking?"

These past few months have been particularly tough. How are you feeling? What are you doing for yourself? Sometimes things are lousy and, trust me, you do not want to hear the truthful answer. Please don't ask.

Stu the Elephant (photo story)

Hart (photo)

Singing Fish

Jeff asked, "Is this the fish song?" Answer: Yes.

One of the doctors long ago explained that Jeff has an elipical way of speaking. True enough. He makes elaborate connections, but he doesn't bother to articulate them. Rather the onus is on the listener. So an ordinary mortal would respond to that question appropriately, "Whaaaat?"

But I have known Jeff long enough to jog along with his mental and verbal locutions. He recognized the song, TAKE ME TO THE RIVER, by a few introductory notes but what he really remembers is that he once saw one of those singing fish. When you pushed the button, Billy Bass did indeed sing this very song.

What is he going to do when I am not around to translate or help to sort through his mental file cabinets?

Passover

I love Passover!," I told Jeff's tutor when I saw her a week ago. She sighed and I immediately regretted my words. For Orthodox Jewish women, Passover is an enormous undertaking, requiring weeks of house-cleaning and shopping, not to mention the onerous task of changing over every single utensil, dish, cup and cooking surface from those used the rest of the year.

I did not always love, or even like, Passover. The Passover week of my childhood was fairly tortuous. In the small Midwestern city where we lived, there was minimum of Passover goods available and even had there been more, my mother would not have purchased them. We bought a box of matzah, a can of macaroons, hard-boiled a few eggs and called it a day, or rather, a long week.

It occurred to me that this attitude is completely contrary to the spirit of the holiday. While everyone does a fair amount of complaining after a few steady days of matzah-eating, this week is about freedom and redemption, and not at all about deprivation. There are vegetarian seders, feminist seders and chocolate seders. It's humbling to imagine historical seders of American abolitionists, Spanish conversos (Jews "passing" as Christians to avoid the Inquisition), World War II gatherings and so on.

This year, Jeff and I were at my youngest brother's house. He cooked up a magnificent feast. As the big sister, I could only marvel, "Who knew?" Upon our return, I renewed my intention to fend off incessant complaining from the boys with special Passover-only goodies. So far, it has worked. I hauled out a number of Passover cookbooks and have whipped up a number of well-received dishes, none of which I have ever made before. The fritatta has been such a success that I have made one every day with a different vegetable. I made soup from scratch and matzah balls (from a mix). Hart requested what I assume to be mushroom farfel and I dutifully whipped up a batch which met his approval. Even the roasted potatoes and asparagus passed muster, although I did not tell the boys that it isn't strictly a Passover dish.

The result is that our week without restaurants, breakfast cereal, sandwiches, cookies and pasta has been, dare I say? enjoyable. The downside has been lots and lots of pots, pans, mixing bowls and utensils called into service. A small price to pay. Still, it beats the lone box of fruit slices of my childhood--then the only culinary highlight of the week.

Washington DC, April 2008 (photos)

Techno Tuck-In

At fourteen and a half, the boys think they are too old for me to read bedtime stories, but I am not about to give up on the joys of leisure "reading" quite yet. So the bedrooms are equipped with a boom box and a few "high-interest" audiobooks from our local public library.

Yesterday, I was the first one to check out something new, PLAYAWAY®, from the library. For the same loan period as a print copy or recording, a borrower can check out a small, dedicated MP3 player with a recorded book. So now, Jeff is proudly several chapters ahead of his classmates in THE GIVER by Lois Lowry.

The boom box is still getting use--I put on Newbery Award-winner, RABBIT HILL by Robert Lawson, this evening.

"What's happening so far?" I asked after about twenty minutes of listening.

"Oh, the bunnies are just talking."

Inky watches FLUSHED AWAY (photos)

I just love those cute little rats!

Do you mind? This is my favorite part.