SUBSTITUTE MEASURES

     Mary and I went to the pool again. Next week she will start the Weight Management Program. Mary is a very unconventional soul. When she went to doctor to discuss her blood test before starting  the Program, she found out that she has Diabetes. The doctor tried to impress upon her the importance of taking medicine and checking her blood sugar level a few times a day. 
     Mary said: "N-O!" She has her own views on health issues. For example, and we talked about all of that while meandering back and forward in the pool, - she says (after researching the matter) that elevated blood sugar is the result of the body's inability to process carbohydrates. So - there are some elements that can help us process the carbs, like Betadine.
     I only heard that word used to describe an antiseptic solution. Perhaps, she meant something else, after all, she purchased it in a pill form and will start taking it immediately. Another way to decrease blood sugar is to exercise. That works, I did it numerous times myself (not enough, mind you!). Mary said that doing repetitive weight pushing  makes your muscle start to absorb carbs instead of them being stashed in your bloodstream.   
     I am not sure, what I feel. I am a little depressed that I am not going to start the Weight Management Program with Mary, after all, it's so much easier to do those things with a friend's support. I am also a little relieved that I don't have to live on those ghastly shakes and nutrition bars and powder soups just yet. I will do so in the new year, won't I? 
     For now, I will just stick with pool, Betadine pills Mary bought me a bottle too) and, maybe, get me some hand weights. 

RIMKA

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RIMKA      Did she like him? She, certainly, had better offers. Like that doctor, for example. But she would have never married the doctor, because she would have always felt inferior to him. And she could not abide that. 
     Meyer was a simple fellow, his family was crude and uninteresting in her eyes. She couldn't see beyond the dirty fingernails and bad table manners, that her unassuming boyfriend was a true craftsman. He joined the crew of, mostly, his relatives, who did various jobs in Moscow. Sure, when there was nothing else, they painted apartments or made safety posters to keep their families fed, but their main work was that of restoration. They put gold leaf on the great cupolas of the Russian churches (Jewish men, risking their lives on the flimsy scaffolding, to uplift and uphold the Russian spirit), painted and restored the train and, later, the metro stations, the historical buildings and the public offices. They were supposed to use stencils to create the appearance that the patterns were sculpted on the walls and the ceilings. Eventually, my father began to just paint them freehand. The Moscow Synagogue, after they were done with it, became a jewel, in hundreds of intricate blue and gold patterns. In fifty years that they spent together, Rimka will rarely think of that or appreciate his talent. She felt that she could be an unchallenged leader of him and their family and that's why she agreed to marry him. 
     She never mellowed out. Of course, she loved us from the bottom of her heart, but her father-in-law called her a gendarme, for the arbitrary rules that she imposed and the attacks of temper against the in-laws and her own family. Meyer tried to reason with her, but soon gave up and resolved, as much as possible, to stay out of her way. 
WE TOGETHER 

     They had two children, my sister and myself. To tell the truth, Meyer and Rimka needed each other. Meyer was easy going and he needed Rimka to push and nudge her family in the direction that, she believed, they should go. She also learned to appreciate Meyer, because she was uncomfortable, even afraid to be alone, and he was the one constant in her life. She loved humor, worked day and night to make her home and children look good. We were some of the best dressed kids at school. Her life's ambition, it seems, was to make me an erudite and a cultured person. She encouraged me to read and learn about arts. The reading of, literally, hundreds of books (my mother got us a "World of Literature" subscription and they sent us a weighty tome every month) backfired, though. From them I learned to be idealistic and to challenge the authority. She was the first authority I challenged. Now that I'm a parent, I understand, how unfair life can be to the parents of the teenagers. Even for the most tolerant folks, its hard to master the amount of patience and understanding that they require. There was no such tolerance in my mother. She could be warm and laughing one minute and take a quick offense the next. She was also never too shy with sharp reprimands or sharp slaps on the face. When we complained to our dad, who came from the war quite deaf in both ears, he would always reply: "She would not say that!" 
     How does this story end? My parents had more then a half a century to build up and tear each other down. Our family was able to move to the United States. The years when she helped raise her grandchildren were the happiest I've ever seen my mother. In 2002 she became sick with cancer. It was as if the lifetime of hurt and resentment, finally, manifested itself in the physical form, destroying her body and undermining her spirit. The last year before she passed away, she separated herself from everybody, like she was pushing us away before she was forced to lose everyone forever. Perhaps, that was the reason why she felt compelled one day, after brewing in her own thoughts for a while, to tell her husband: "I should've left you when I was younger!". My father was deeply hurt; he both, blamed and grieved for her, for the rest of his life. I think, though, that he never let go of the memory of that skinny, vulnerable, green-eyed girl that he met so long ago. 
     How does this story end? Well, it doesn't. Rimka left her stamp on us for all eternity. There isn't a day when the memory of her love, hard work, deeds and misdeeds doesn't influence my own actions and decisions. Her fierce desire for validation and control are alive in me too, even though I try to keep tighter rule on my emotions. Fortunately, I also inherited some of my father's tolerance and forgiveness, and so my own children will tell different kinds of tales about me. Or will they? 






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FIREPROOF starring Kirk Cameron

I was invited to see a movie tonight. I did not expect to be so moved by it. It is called Fireproof. It is about couples overcoming difficulties in their relationships with the power of God's love and self-sacrifice. I heard that the movie was made by volunteers, on a very small budget. It is really worth watching, if deep questions, like the nature of the relationships and our own relationship with the eternal and imperishable things, concern you. Then you'll love it!

SCANDALOUS!

     It's so strange and scandalous! I hope, my husband doesn't find out what I am now letting the whole world know: I get smiles and alerts that some single men in my area viewed my profile! Well, actually, they viewed my friend, Evelyn's, profile, with her name and a description in it, but since she is utterly computer illiterate, I helped her set up her profile on two matching websites and placed my e-mail address there. 
     It's  going to blow up in my face, I just know it. But what can I do? I promised to help her find a husband, and that's what we are doing. 



     Evelyn is beautiful and healthy and fit. She managed to raise a kid alone, who now is in one of the best colleges in the country. Why is it so hard to find a man who would be worthy of such a person? I already turned the world over (really, I talked to people from all over the States and Europe), but, so far, - no luck! Perhaps, with the help of the internet-the-all-knowing, we can unearth that elusive someone that God in Her wisdom prepared for Evelyn! And I hope, it'll happen before my husband starts asking questions about why single men find it necessary to send me their profiles!

RIMKA

RIMKA

     Grandma Velya really was sick. It was up to Rimka now to provide the necessities of life: food and the wood for fuel, to supplement their meager rations, as well as keep house and her own sanity. She spent the years of war doing just that. Her father and his family came to live in Moscow after the siege was lifted. He didn't have much to do with Rimka, but other relatives shamed him into helping her and his mother. 
     In fact, her relatives took more and more interest in the young woman that she became. They urged her to finish the nursing school, then to specialize as a lab technician She and the Grandma were still poor like the, let's say, synagogue mice. Rimka went out with a few young men, but nothing serious ever came out of this. She was getting older, but in the country where every third man died in the war, it was hard to find a suitable husband.

MEYER

     Meyer felt the warmth of the sun on his shoulders through a thin civilian shirt. After seven years of soldiering, the civilian shoes still felt strangely light on his feet. The clanging of the trams and the women's voices on the street thrilled him. He was safe. He survived the war, the bombings, the cold and the hunger, the German attacks and the anti-Semitic bastards in the Russian army. After Germany surrendered, he was sent to the Far East. 

     The Russian Army marched for hundreds of miles through Mongolia to the Japanese front, but the Americans bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the war was over. The army sent him to Siberia then, to build some fortifications. He survived that too, although carrying giant logs and living in constant cold and wetness undermined his health in ways that he didn't even start to understand. But he went to war as a bookish, sickly young boy and he came back as a strong, reliable young man. After a couple of years at home, his mother began to nag him to find a good Jewish girl and get married. In fact, right now he was going to meet a young lady recommended by a matchmaker.
     As my future father neared his destination, he noticed that the houses were getting shabbier and shabbier. The place where he was going was, really, just a little hut sitting next to an apartment building. He knocked on the door - the lock was broken - and came inside. The pile of blankets on a bed in the darkened room moved, and a girl 's face showed up. He took in the huge, hungry green eyes, the hollow cheeks and a full lower lip. She was lovely. He introduced himself to her and the Grandmother who slept on a large bed behind the stove. He made himself useful by chopping wood, then, for a little while, made small talk. 

Rimka's (mom's) Grandmother, Velya (in front),
father (directly over her), step-mother (to the left of her)
and aunt and uncles.

     The next day, he came back and repaired the lock and some other things in the house. After that he kept showing up, hoping to understand whether they belonged together. Most of the time, she was shy and even a little bit cold. When he met her relatives, he felt out of place. They had a cultured air about them, and he was from a simple family of craftsmen. Rimka didn't encourage him too much, but she was always there when he called. He couldn't figure her out. Most of the time she was nice and proper, but, sometimes, she could be out of control, like when her Grandma took his side in an argument once and Rimka smacked her across the face. Perhaps, he thought, she will mellow out in marriage.
     One day, in the winter, they went to the store together. The new snow just fell, the streets were quiet and the air was crisp and almost ringing with anticipation. They started to throw snow balls at each other, then, breathless with laughter and exertion, they stopped and kissed in the gateway.



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ACCOMPLISHMENTS?

 Well, so far, I can't brag about my accomplishments. I didn't go on Weight management Program because it's better to do it next year, when we will get a tax break from spending all that money on medicine. I cancelled the pool outing with Mary yesterday and a session with Mr. P today because... There weren't any really compelling reasons to do it. I just had to juggle a few other things that I needed to do. It was possible to arrange everything, but my inner sleeper turned to the wall and announced: "I'm not going to think about it today. I'll think about it tomorrow!" That is a quote form Miss Scarlett O'Hara that I so often find myself mentally using to subvert my own efforts for good living. 

     Is it enough to be a Dina-Llama if my health and my life are falling apart? I myself wouldn't trust a person who encourages others and can't master will power to take care of oneself. On the other hand, what's that that Mr. P teaches me to remember? "Condemning my imperfections can never enhance my appreciation of life or help me love myself more." 
     I will do it! I will do it!

RIMKA

RIMKA

     After the fiasco at the farm, Rimka had to go home, of course, but, secretly, she was thrilled by her adventure. In Moscow, she continued to volunteer whenever she could. When the Germans started to throw the fire bugs, the devices that ignited on contact, from their planes, she ran with a group of her friends on the roofs of the Russian Capital, pushing the missiles off to the streets bellow. She was drafted to work at the munitions' factory. She worked so hard that the other women began to complain that because of her the quotas were getting higher. That discouraged Rimka so much that she became depressed again. Women had to live in the dormitories, they worked for many hours, without much rest. One day, Rimka hid to get some sleep during her shift. She was found, humiliated and almost court-martialed for abandoning her post during the war. Her age saved her and the fact that she was her sick Grandmother Velya's only caregiver.


MEYER

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     Meyer and Wolfzon helped each other to pick up their loads and set off walking again, Meyer praying to God in whom he didn't believe and Wolfzon getting quietly high. In addition to smoking pot, he also dug out a bottle of hooch, and Meyer heard the musical sounds of the alcohol pouring into Wolfzon's mouth. No one could find drugs or booze better then Wolfzon. No matter, where the telephone unit was, how far in the countryside or in the most ransacked city, Wolfzon would lay his hands on anything that he could sniff, snort, take, drink or cook that would bring him the desired oblivion. It was a testament to the desperation of the Soviet government that a known drug addict and a flat-footed 18 year old boy, chronically suffering from severe sinus infections, were drafted at all.
     Twenty minutes later, and Wolfzon crushed to the ground again. He sat in the middle of the road, laughing and smearing the mud on his face and uniform. Meyer sighed and dropped the spool. He yelled to Serov to catch up with them quickly. Serov approached, swearing. He calmed down though and his eyes took on a sly expression, when Meyer explained his idea. He would walk by himself, laying the wire on the ground and come back for them after he reached their destination and left the empty spool there. They would then be able to manage Wolfzon and the things he carried and set the poles for the wire that Meyer had laid earlier, so that it would be out of the way of the traffic. The lieutenant, obviously, thought that Meyer might get blown up anyway, and, if otherwise, they'll be able to complete their task.
     As Meyer walked off, he heard the sound of lieutenant's fists smacking into Wolfzon. Wolfzon just grunted and giggled in response to the blows.
     The night became darker. Walking backwards with a heavy spool and unreeling the wire was hard work. Even so, from time to time Meyer looked up at the stars and mouthed prayers that his grandfather taught him.


MEYER

     His mind went from praying to thinking of his family. His parents emigrated to Russia from Poland sometime after the World War I. His mother was an orphan, but she made a life for herself by taking on the cleaning and sewing jobs. She had more money then her groom and even bought him a suit for the wedding! He was a happy man once, a loving husband and father. He often played violin for his family and guests. Anyone in need, even if they were complete strangers, were always welcome in his home for a meal or the shelter. Life beat the happiness out of him, but could not take away his charitable heart or the unique creativity with which he approached every task. Meyer moaned, thinking of how he wasn't allowed to go home to say good bye to his dying father. A few months after that, he received a notice that his brother, Samuel, was missing in action. Meyer shuddered to think what his starry-eyed poet and a bookworm brother went through in the war, before he disappeared somewhere in the bogs near Leningrad. At least Lev, his other brother, was out of danger. He had a cushy posting in the supply corps. Meyer's mother lived in Moscow with her only daughter and the grandchildren. Meyer's mind flinched away from thinking about them. It was too painful: he couldn't do anything to help or protect them.
     As he worked, the fear gradually dissipated. The spool was getting lighter. Meyer saw a crumbling wall of an abandoned village. He took a short rest in the club building, left everything there that he wouldn't need on the way back and set out to help Wolfzon and Serov. They had to drug Wolfzon between them, while Serov kept on a steady stream of dire threats and racial slurs. He insisted on putting unconscious Wolfzon in a separate hut for the few hours before the dawn.
     When they went to fetch him in the morning, he wasn't there. Usually, after drinking and doing drugs Wolfzon would be miserable and limp as a noodle, in withdrawal. They went out of the hut and looked around. The morning was quiet and ordinary. They saw Wolfzon, moseying toward them through a small apple orchard, chewing on an apple. He was weak but unharmed. Wolfzon finished the apple, spat the seeds and threw the uneaten core back into the trees. The blast of the explosion flung all of them to the ground, earth clods and pieces of the tree pelting them as they writhed in mortal fear. Afterwards, they sat there, digging the dirt from their eyes and trying to hear through the ringing in their ears. Wolfzon was pointing at what used to be an orchard and stuttering: "I w-w-walked through there j-just n-now!" Serov's pants were wet and sagging in the back and he smelled like shit.

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