Recently I sent out an e-mail blast with a video I think expresses the essence of attention - I've received it several times and even put it on my Facebook spot. I've gotten comments from "Fabulous, I' have tears," to lots of "Thank you's" to "who are you promoting and why?"...and so the beat goes on...whenever one shows up or speaks up, someone out there doesn't like it. I've heard this one forever.
The really wonderful part of all of all this is that I've heard back from so many with whom I've been out of touch, since I moved to New York. I am thrilled. There's such a feeling of joy when I reconnect with old pals. I even heard from Europe and New Zealand.
So after an energetic Friday in my office, on Sunday, I subwayed down to the lower East side of Manhattan for a professional tour of the area with an Alumni Group of U of M. Somehow it was sponsored by the Business School, so I was the only one there from LS&A. Very fun to share this with all ages, some graduates of the B school and some in-going graduate students. We all share a joyousness about our years in Ann Arbor no matter our ages. Some continue to return for the Football Games; others go back for reunions, which I've done; I luckily discovered some years ago where the Michigan Band practiced for a trip to The Rose Bowl, and I went in Pasadena and watched them for hours --- totally thrilling and exhilarating.
Now, about those pickles. We were on the street listening to our tour leader who'd just handed out plantains to give us a taste of the area, when she started to talk about our next stop, the Pickle Factory. During the great Jewish immigration in the early 20th century, the pickle business was huge with some 70 factories thricing. Today there is only one and it's owned and operated by a group of Chinese. There were lots of people already in line and the smells coming forth were music to my nose. I had to go in, where there were about 20 vats with everything you could imagine being pickled. Even pineapple. Our guide had bought us sour pickles, which were delicious, but I wish I'd had a chance to taste the dills. I'll just have to go back.
This was certainly another connection for me. Those smells came from my childhood, even though I grew up in Detroit, which did not have pickle factories; fortunately we had deli's.
In two hours we went historically from the Jewish part of the area and the Italian/Irish part to today, where the Chinese have settled. It was a glorious day and the most-used park in New York was packed full of Chinese families connecting, chatting, using the playground equipment, walking babies; we could easily have thought we were some place in China.
What a week-end...
Monday, April 18, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Miracles Are Abounding, for Which I Am So Very grateful!
You know people are always trying to connect people; it's the nature of the beast, so to speak. One day a childhood friend of mine from Detroit called. She still lives there. I left there some 45 years ago to live in Los Angeles. She'd been talking to some other women and somehow the subject of New York came up. They all discovered that they had friends in New York who should know each other because they'd probably really like each other. Several calls and e-mails later, Joan and I had a lovely dinner together.
The ladies from Detroit were right; we did like each other.
That night after our dinner, Joan went home and called other friends in our old home town to tell them about her new friend, named Alice, who had moved to Port Huron as a young mother. She really knew little else about my early life, as we'd never met before.
Here comes the 2 degrees of separation. Both women she called knew me! Sue and I had gone to elementary school together, and Rhoda had worked in my father's Ophthalmologic office for years and years.
While I had not known Rhoda, for I actually lived in Port Huron the very years she started working for my father, I decided to call her anyway.
We chatted like old friends. She is just a few years younger than I am, and when she worked for my father, they would have lunch together during which time he would lecture her on his rules for living, on strict dating protocol and other issues, just like he had me.
Well, our conversation turned out to give me something I never would have imagined. She delivered a much miracle to me: a communication that my father had with her, which was really meant for me...about being happy...never too late, so glad, finally.
The ladies from Detroit were right; we did like each other.
That night after our dinner, Joan went home and called other friends in our old home town to tell them about her new friend, named Alice, who had moved to Port Huron as a young mother. She really knew little else about my early life, as we'd never met before.
Here comes the 2 degrees of separation. Both women she called knew me! Sue and I had gone to elementary school together, and Rhoda had worked in my father's Ophthalmologic office for years and years.
While I had not known Rhoda, for I actually lived in Port Huron the very years she started working for my father, I decided to call her anyway.
We chatted like old friends. She is just a few years younger than I am, and when she worked for my father, they would have lunch together during which time he would lecture her on his rules for living, on strict dating protocol and other issues, just like he had me.
Well, our conversation turned out to give me something I never would have imagined. She delivered a much miracle to me: a communication that my father had with her, which was really meant for me...about being happy...never too late, so glad, finally.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Riding New York Buses Is Like Going to the Theater.
I absolutely adore riding New York City Buses. I never know exactly what's going to happen. As I am an experienced people-watcher, I really do take in the scene.
Yesterday was quite a dramatic treat.
I got on a bus going uptown, and noticed that the driver had actually waited for me, I thought. I asked if he'd seen me running to catch him. "No" he answered. Ok! I sat down and waited. Five minutes went by. Finally he started driving. He soon stopped and waited again. This happened three more times. I looked at my watch. He then announced to his riders, at last, that he would not be moving again, until the bus in front of his moved on and suggested we all move to the other bus. There were six of us who got off and on again and started speaking to each other about this adventure. Others shared that four buses had previously arrived at the same time, which was very unusual, so our driver was obviously trying to slow down....
We were now becoming bus buddies, involved in this common experience.
The next part of the ride went really fast, and I transferred to a cross-town bus. When I got on the next bus and approached the fare box, I saw a slip of paper which said "Free." I thanked the driver, sat down in the front row and preceded to watch as the other riders got on and reacted to the slip of paper. One lady looked angry. One man asked if that paper meant that he could just sit down; he was carrying a brief case full of Financial Newspapers. There were lots of riders at that time, so there were lots of totally different reactions. Some looked relieved, some looked harried, some registered disbelief. Almost no one thanked her!
Finally, a little lady walked up the the front to ask the driver where she would stop next. The driver told her to please stop yelling, to which the little lady replied that she always sounded like that, as she had a loud voice. She got off with no further conversation.
Finally, it was my turn to get off, so I thanked the driver again and wished her a lovely evening. She just smiled at me and looked so relieved that someone actually had paid attention to her.
Yesterday was quite a dramatic treat.
I got on a bus going uptown, and noticed that the driver had actually waited for me, I thought. I asked if he'd seen me running to catch him. "No" he answered. Ok! I sat down and waited. Five minutes went by. Finally he started driving. He soon stopped and waited again. This happened three more times. I looked at my watch. He then announced to his riders, at last, that he would not be moving again, until the bus in front of his moved on and suggested we all move to the other bus. There were six of us who got off and on again and started speaking to each other about this adventure. Others shared that four buses had previously arrived at the same time, which was very unusual, so our driver was obviously trying to slow down....
We were now becoming bus buddies, involved in this common experience.
The next part of the ride went really fast, and I transferred to a cross-town bus. When I got on the next bus and approached the fare box, I saw a slip of paper which said "Free." I thanked the driver, sat down in the front row and preceded to watch as the other riders got on and reacted to the slip of paper. One lady looked angry. One man asked if that paper meant that he could just sit down; he was carrying a brief case full of Financial Newspapers. There were lots of riders at that time, so there were lots of totally different reactions. Some looked relieved, some looked harried, some registered disbelief. Almost no one thanked her!
Finally, a little lady walked up the the front to ask the driver where she would stop next. The driver told her to please stop yelling, to which the little lady replied that she always sounded like that, as she had a loud voice. She got off with no further conversation.
Finally, it was my turn to get off, so I thanked the driver again and wished her a lovely evening. She just smiled at me and looked so relieved that someone actually had paid attention to her.
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