Rites of the First Born

I find myself staring at Finley’s picture for minutes on end. Perhaps all first-time grandparents do the same, caught up in the thrill of looking at their line extension, at the blissful beauty of an innocent face sleeping peacefully. I just turned the desktop screensaver of my computer into a Finley picture frame, first time I ever put a picture on it. But I wonder—will I do the same for the next grandchild? For my daughter’s first child when he or she arrives?

When my parents’ first grandchild, my brother’s son, showed up, they were still relatively young and vibrant. Dad was 64, Mom 58 (Gilda and I are 60—don’t worry, she has no problem revealing her age). They cradled Eric in their arms. Bounced him on their knees. Mom tried to stuff him with chicken noodle soup. When Eric was old enough to hang on, his grandfather turned into a bucking bronco. All those westerns Dad watched proved to be invaluable training.

Three years later Dan was born. He was their second grandchild, followed within the next nine months by my sister’s first child, Ari, and Eric’s sister, Karen. Mom and Dad tried to be as excited, but the novelty and age with its creeping infirmities made these family additions a little less dramatic. I can’t recall Dad ever dropping down on all fours and giving Dan a ride on his back.

It’s only natural that the first born, child or grandchild, is showered with the most attention, but the desire to “not behave like our parents” is deeply rooted. Only time will tell if I am successful. I didn’t always succeed when raising Dan and Ellie. My inner ear caught me repeating phrases my parents hurled at me when growing up, phrases I had vowed never to say to my children.

Perhaps with more diligence and awareness, and with better health, I will do better when the next grandchild, and the next one after that...arrives.

The Roads Not Traveled

During the last 32 years my work provided one of the all-time great benefits. I was able to travel extensively throughout the United States and abroad, often with my wife, sometimes even with our children. Because of my work we’ve visited England, France, Switzerland, Luxembourg, The Netherlands, Germany, The Czech Republic, Denmark, Japan, Spain and Gibraltar. My travels transported me to all but five states—Alaska, North and South Dakota, Wyoming, and New Mexico.

Through these trips I managed to see some of the wonders of the world and America. One Sunday before a new Montgomery Ward store opened in Colorado Springs, I drove up nearby Pikes Peak. I observed alligators and crocodiles in the Everglades, walked the Alamo (much smaller in real life than in the movies), hiked among the redwoods of Muir Woods outside San Francisco and down part of the path of the Grand Canyon, visited the Emperor’s Palace Gardens in Tokyo, the spas of Carlsbad inside the Czech Republic, The Tower of London, The Berlin Wall and East Berlin, to name just a few.

I don’t want to give the impression that these business trips were all play. Indeed, I regret not doing more. For instance, a business friend of mine took advantage of his trips to watch a baseball game in almost all of the major league ballparks. I should have done that. And I didn’t visit some of the great museums in cities like Chicago, or Los Angeles.

But the most disappointing aspect of my travels only recently came to light with the airing of The National Parks, America’s Best Idea, a PBS documentary. Hour after hour Gilda and I sat spellbound by not only the natural beauty of our land but also by the stories of individuals, private citizens and civil servants, who exulted in and shaped our national treasures. I’ve been to California at least 30 times, but never visited Yosemite. Not tragic, but truly disappointing.

Our children, Dan and Ellie, have traveled cross country by car. The only family picture in our bedroom is a black and white print of them sitting atop a crest overlooking a mountain range in Zion National Park in southwest Utah.

I never fully appreciated Dan’s passion for the parks, his desire to get married under one of the arches in Utah’s Arches National Park. He settled for getting married overlooking the Hudson River, but after seeing the Ken Burns documentary, I understand, a little better, his rapture with the parks.

When Gilda eventually retires, we’ll be taking a long trip out West, discovering all that we missed along roads not traveled in states we think we already experienced.

Rodents and Other Must-Have Toys

It’s been 20 years or so since I’ve looked through a Toys “R” Us circular in earnest. But grandparenthood has a way of pulling you back to earlier, more simple times.

Hold it. I’m not sure of that last thought about simpler times, how accurate it is.

The other day I saw a piece on the CBS Evening News with Katie Couric that examined the inventory shortage of the hottest toy of the year. What toy is driving kids crazy? It’s a furry hamster on wheels! A rodent! Kids want to play with rodents! Check it out, on http://www.cbs.com/cbs_evening_news/video/?pid=e9a_op7AB45s4lx7YFznBXB4m kGbEGKL

For those who couldn’t load the video clip, here’s a link to a story from Saturday’s NY Times, http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/21/business/21toys.html?scp=1&sq=hamster&st=cse.

Now, before you go saying that Mickey Mouse is a rodent, as is Mighty Mouse, and Rocky is a squirrel, and Chip and Dale are chipmunks, let me point out that all these furry hamsters do is move in the direction you point them, or in the (curved) tracks you lay in front of them.

Sure they’re cute. But if this is what it will mean to be a grandparent, finding the must-have toy for my grandchildren, I have a lot of re-education to go through.

When our daughter Ellie was almost three years old, her favorite doll was a big, hard plastic-faced one she called Sally. Sally looked really ratty. Her blonde hair was a mess. Her clothing was Salvation Army salvage. Ellie loved Sally, but her parents had a hard time allowing her to take Sally out in public. They thought it would look more appropriate to their station in life if Ellie was seen hugging a Cabbage Patch Kid.

Trouble was, CPK’s were in short supply. You couldn’t find them anywhere. Parents were desperate, willing to pay as much as 10 times the regular price.

In October of that year Gilda and I attended a retail conference. During dinner one night we sat with Burt Adelman, the head of Lamston’s, a NY-based variety store chain, and his wife, Bunny. Bunny and Gilda, along with my boss’s wife Trudy, schemed up a plan to trick Burt into securing a Cabbage Patch Kid for Ellie’s upcoming birthday in December. To Bunny’s question of what Ellie wanted, Gilda replied a Cabbage Patch Kid, but none could be found anywhere. Burt took the bait and, sure enough, within a week’s time a box appeared on our doorstep.

But that’s not the end of the story. No sooner had we put away the doll than an invitation arrived at my office from Coleco, the licensee of the CPK franchise. For the first time ever it was sponsoring a CPK float in the annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. My family and another of my choosing were invited to view the parade from the balcony of the Sheraton Manhattan Hotel. My brother’s family came with us.

It was an exciting day. The huge parade balloons were at eye level. Though it was bitter cold outside, we were toasty warm inside, eating a sumptuous brunch. As a token of their appreciation for our attendance, Coleco gave the four youngsters in our group their own CPK dolls, plus assorted CPK merchandise such as lunchboxes, earmuffs and records. For good measure we also took home two dolls that were table centerpieces. Ellie now had more CPK dolls waiting for her attention than almost any other kid alive.

You’ve probably guessed by now...Ellie couldn’t care less for any of them. All she wanted was Sally. We wound up giving away all but one CPK. Of course, several years later Ellie did develop a love of Cabbage Patch Kids and we had to go out and buy a whole new family of dolls for her.

I might be a little rusty, but I’m definitely experienced at this must-have toy mania.

Special Person's Day

I could tell from Maggie’s expression that she couldn’t see me among the hundreds of adults amassed before her. I was sitting way in the back for her third grade Special Person’s Day assembly. In retrospect, I would have been easier to spot had I been standing, but I didn’t think of it soon enough. At first, I had a hard time finding my eight-year-old grand-niece as well, but it turned out I was directly in front of her, 30 long yards away as she stood with her classmates on the stage at the front of the large hall, a red bandana atop her hair. I repeatedly waved, but she didn’t see me.

The singing began, patriotic songs in honor of Veterans' Day. Between the first and second songs I read Maggie’s lips as she whispered to Sam standing next to her, “I think my uncle is not here.”

She kept scanning the audience. She was going through the motions singing the songs, visibly sad thinking I wasn’t there. I ached to call out. I sat up as straight as I could, hoping she’d pick me out. And then, during the next to last song that thanked the special persons for coming to school today, she saw me. Her eyes twinkled. She smiled, and for the rest of the song her right sleeve brushed her eyes several times. I misted up as well, relieved, and I projected out that in a few years my grandson will experience similar days at school with his special persons, a different one every year.

Once you’ve given your commitment to attend, you can’t expect a child to understand why you didn’t make it to school that day, on time. Traffic, work, petty illness—nothing can get in your way. Nothing can top that moment of recognition when you lock eyes and the child knows you cared enough to be there, that he or she mattered more than anything else in your life.

Special Person’s Day started out many years ago as Grandparent’s Day. Someone figured out that death and distance precluded some children from having a loved one in attendance, so the event was changed to Special Person’s Day. At our children’s elementary school, Gilda pushed through the changeover while she was PTA president. She’d gotten the idea from my brother’s wife, Annette. Their children’s school in Rockville, Md., had made the transition.

I wasn’t the first Special Person Maggie had invited. Her father and our daughter Ellie secured the honor in prior years. But it’s good to know that, no matter what year, being a special person provides lasting enjoyment for both the child and the adult.

A Name for the Ages

The coincidental timing of current events with the biblical narrative as it plays out in the weekly readings of the Torah can be eerily comforting.

Last week my grandson, Finley Hawthorne Forseter, was born (follow his blog at findingfinley.blogspot.com). As is the custom in Jewish families, Finley’s Hebrew name was given to him at his Bris, his ritual circumcision, which occurred yesterday. He was given the name Yakov (Jacob) in honor of my deceased father and his mother’s paternal grandfather who passed away a year ago. My dad’s Hebrew name was Yakov. James Mixter Sr. was not Jewish, but James usually is translated as Yakov.

Each week in synagogue, Jews read a portion of the Torah (the Five Books of Moses). The full portion, referred to as a parsha, is read on Saturday morning. But on Monday and Thursday mornings the first 12 or so sentences of the longer portion are read. Sort of like a preview of what is to come on Saturday.

During the fall, the readings comes from the Book of Genesis. Last week’s Torah portion was titled Toledot, (Generations, in English). It begins at Chapter 25, verse 19 of Genesis, with the birth of twins to Rebecca and Isaac. Yakov was one of those twins, Esau the other. Finley was born at 7:01 am, right around the time last Monday morning when Yakov’s birth would have been read in synagogue.

This was not the first time the story of the patriarch Yakov impressed itself on the narrative of my family. The week my father died in 1998, the parsha of the week recounted the last days of Yakov’s life in Egypt. I was struck at the time by the commonalities Yakov and my father shared. Yakov died in a land not his own, a land he traveled to when adversity, a famine, struck his homeland, Canaan. My father, too, fled his native land, Poland, right before the outbreak of World War II. Like Yakov, my father and his family prospered in a new world.

Like Yakov, my father was a patriarch. He was a leader not only to his family but also to many of his business associates, the synagogue in Brooklyn he served as president for many years, and to the many refugees from the little village of Ottynier who left to find a better life. For many, many years he was president of the First Ottynier Young Men’s Benevolent Association.

I met James Mixter Sr. just two or three times, but it was obvious he was a man of warmth and uncompromising integrity. He was a leader in his own right. Prior to last year’s New Hampshire presidential primary, John McCain personally called James Sr. to discuss what needed to be done to secure his support. You don’t have to agree with a man’s politics to appreciate the values and standing he brings to a community.

Finley Hawthorne Forseter, Yakov Forseter, sockless for now, has some mighty big shoes to fill.

Oprah Packs It In

Oprah Winfrey will end her syndicated broadcast talk show in September 2011. 9/11. Funny how some dates forever are associated with significant events.

Oprah’s decision to abdicate network television in favor of cable for her own channel, the Oprah Winfrey Network, will have financial repercussions throughout the media industry, including for Oprah herself. At this time there are no plans to shift the Oprah Winfrey Show, network television’s top-rated talk show, onto her cable network. No matter how it affects others, I’m betting on Oprah to come out on top. To be sure, she’s had setbacks. Everyone does, including Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Warren Buffet, and anyone else who takes risks. As the first Afro-American billionaire, she’s proven she’s a savvy businessperson.

Though her gabfest has aired for 23 years, Oprah’s one hour presence on my TV screen through the years can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Oh sure, I’ve seen clips of some of her famous interviews rebroadcast on TV news reports and YouTube, but I’ve sat through an entire show less than a handful of times. I do recognize that she has entertained, informed and influenced our society for nearly a quarter of a century by advancing our national dialogue on a wide range of issues. I’m not trying to be elitist or snobbish with my diffidence toward her show. It’s just that her show is not really my cup of tea.

For that matter, I’m not a Judge Judy or an Ellen or a Jerry Springer type of guy, either. Nor do I like to listen to Entertainment Tonight or the Insider, especially lately now that they’ve stopped pure “reporting” and gone into a more confrontational format of bickering panelists. Is anyone out there listening to the volume of distaste and diatribe our society is spewing out there every day, be it from The View or from Fox “News” Network or CNBC?

We have totally abandoned civility. How can individual acts of kindness compete with terabytes of tantrums?

I am aware of no instance where Oprah Winfrey degraded a guest. Yes, she took some to task, like the author whose book she touted who turned out to be a fake. But her reputation as a cultural icon stemmed from her treatment of others with respect. By others I mean not only her guests in the studio and on stage, but also the seven million guests who tuned in almost daily to be enlightened and uplifted.

September 9, 2011, will be her last network broadcast. I might tune in that day.

Black Friday Madness

We are a few days away from one of the consumer- and media-frenzy days of the year. Perhaps second only to election day, Black Friday—the day after Thanksgiving when most retailers launch massive early morning sales promotions—is an occasion for the media to trot out their vast resources to cover the story. Helicopters hover over crowded shopping centers, reporters wade into throngs of shoppers, cameramen angle for the best shot of the hordes galloping into and thrashing about, and sometimes trashing, stores in search of loss-leader bargains galore. At the end of the day, reporters opine on the meaning behind Black Friday as a portend of full holiday season sales, even though the history of retailing during the last decade or longer reveals that Black Friday no longer carries such importance. Rather, the weekend before Christmas and the week after have eclipsed it, while the Internet has intermediated it as well.

But the public needs its images, so Black Friday has turned into a circus, promoted by a willing combination of media and retail companies, each group with its own economic wish list it wants fulfilled.

For the record, Black Friday refers to the day when, in the past, retailers finally saw their balance sheets for the year turn profitable because of all the post-Thanksgiving sales rung up. True or not, the day after Thanksgiving has come to enjoy notoriety beyond its real importance.

This year’s Black Friday also will commemorate the senseless death of a Wal-Mart temporary worker, Jdimytai Damour , trampled last year by unruly crowds in a Valley Stream, N.Y., store. The incident gave an unfortunate true meaning to the term “door buster” sales.

For more than 30 years I observed retail companies plan the hype for Black Friday, with little regard to customer or worker safety. Last year’s tragedy, not the first time life and limb sustained damage, prompted renewed emphasis on security. The NY Times recently detailed some of the precautions Wal-Mart and other retailers will employ. Tactics will include opening Thanksgiving morning at 6 a.m. and remaining open through Friday evening, as well as patrolling entrances and supervising lines near most-wanted merchandise that will go on sale at 5 a.m. Friday. Here’s a link to the article, http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/11/business/11security.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=black%20friday&st=cse.

But lost amid the rush to buy and sell is the loss of dignity foisted on our consumer society. Why do retailers create the conditions that turn customers into desperadoes? Why do retailers turn their workers into hall monitors at best, untrained policemen at worst? Why will they now steal from them one of the few days, Thanksgiving, when they could be home with their families? These are not life’s necessities being promoted. Customers could wait another day to buy, and workers another day to sell, flat screen televisions or digital cameras.

With an unforgiving economy making shoppers more eager than ever to secure the lowest price possible, I fear for the safety of anyone who is foolish or desperate enough to shop early, or unfortunate enough to have to work those pre-dawn hours. Last November in my retail industry magazine, I editorialized that “the frenzy of early-morning specials demeans shoppers and workers and puts them at physical risk. I fear that this year’s economic condition will supercharge Black Friday madness. Any store that does not safeguard shoppers and staff with adequate security will be negligent, morally if not criminally.”

Let’s hope that sanity and security abound this Black Friday and that we have no more economic casualties like Jdimytai Damour.