Golden Moments with The Golden Notebook

Woodstock is my home, and Barry Samuels, co-owner of The Golden Notebook, a bookstore in the heart of this amazing community, arranged a reading and signing for Fran and myself. The event itself was truly an honor, for this long established institution's days are numbered.  One of the bookstore's owners has been ill, and a sale is imminent.

The upstairs room at Joshua's Cafe just down the street from The Golden Notebook,  proved the perfect venue.  What we thought would be a half-hour event spiraled into a two-hour "party,"  not unusual in a town packed with remarkable people.  Woodstock has more than its share of artists of every description; writers, painters, musicians -- you name it!   Fran's daughter, landscape architect Gabriela Yariv, had an opportunity to meet new friends and experience the unique flavor of Woodstock.  The love and support of my husband, Bob Malkin, and our many friends made this event memorable and very exciting.  Thank you once again, Golden Notebook!

Playing To An Empty House

We got off to such a fabulous start at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena that we were somewhat spoiled.  The audience for our out-of-town signings were predictably smaller, but still drew some interested people.  Albany was an abrupt reminder that we are not celebrities on the New York Times best-seller list....at least not yet!  The signing was at Barnes and Noble in Albany where neither of us knew anyone.

We left Woodstock in plenty of time for an early dinner, figuring if the event was scheduled for 7:00  we would not be done before 8:15 or so and it would be too late for dinner.

The store manager was off, the store itself nearly deserted, but they had set up a desk for us, facing chairs for the audience.  The seats were unoccupied.  We sat down behind the desk, smiling hopefully at the few customers who passed by.  Barbara invited one or two to join us, but they passed.  We decided to wait until 7:20 or so and if no one showed up, we would leave.  7:20 came and went.  We looked at the empty seats and decided to give it another 10 minutes.  At 7:30 we closed up shop.

We asked the girl behind the counter if it ever happened before that no one showed up at a reading.  "Yes," she replied.  "Depends on the date, the weather.  You never know."  We thanked her, bought a couple of books (including one of our own) and hit the road.

We turned our thoughts to our next event --Fairfield, Conn.--where we knew at least some of our old high school friends and our cousins would show up.  Onward!

Fran

Poughkeepsie

Barnes and Noble in Poughkeepsie was scheduled for the next day.  We left Margie's home in the morning and arrived in Woodstock by one (with a stop at an optomotrist to repair Fran's bi-foculs which  had  fallen apart).  We figured we had time for a rest, even a walk, before leaving at 5:15 for our 7:00 signing.  It was nearly 3:00 when Barbara checked our blog and panicked.  "The signing is at six, not seven!" she shouted. "We have to leave in five minutes!"  Somehow we managed to dress, grab our poster and reading copies, and race out the door.

We arrived at the store just in time and took our seats at the table set up for us.  A couple of people arrived and we waited for more.  A woman came up to us and said she saw the name Pokras on the flyer posted at the entrance.  "I went to college with a woman named Pokras and wondered if you were related," she said.  Turned out that the Pokras woman she knew was Noreen, married to our first cousin, Dave.  She happily joined us.

Our table happened to be positioned next to the Romance Novel section, and the women who approached turned out to be more interested in the Harlequins than in us.  Then we spotted an older man carrying a copy of The Economist magazine.  We invited him to join us.  "I'm not really a fiction reader," he said,  "but I'd like to sit for awhile."

We began our readings and Edward (we found out later that was his name) put down his magazine and listened intently.  When we were done, he began the discussion which turned into a fascinating give and take about the pros and cons of nursing homes.  He and Fran later engaged in a lively conversation about the Brooklyn Dodgers and how they never forgave Walter O'Malley for moving them to L.A.  But that's another story.

And so the event in Poughkeepsie, while small, was stimulating and fun.  We hope that Edward enjoys FEEDING MRS. MOSKOWITZ AND THE CAREGIVER.  Who knows?  Maybe he will discover the joys of fiction.

Fran

All Things Literary

Our first east coast event was a distinct departure from the usual bookstore signings.  All Things Literary is a book club  in Levittown, Long Island, consisting of twelve lively, articulate, book-loving ladies.  We were flattered when they chose FEEDING MRS.MOSKOWITZ AND THE CAREGIVER as one of their selections and invited us to speak.

The trip from Woodstock proved more difficult than anticipated (so what else is new?) what with horrendous traffic and rain, combined with Barbara's determination to make a detour to Joe's Dairy in Manhattan for some handmade mozzarella.  But we made it to Margie Juszczak's home just as dinner was about to be served to the group.

The fact that the ladies had all read the book and had questions prepared made for an extremely interesting discussion.  Topics included problems facing the elderly when they encounter difficulty living on their own, and, believe me, everyone had an opinion!  The group wanted to know how we came to write the two novellas, and as a couple of the women were writers, the usual subject of how to get an agent and publisher came up.

After everyone left, we re-hashed the evening with Margie (who graciously put us up for the night) and dropped into bed, exhausted.

Fran

The End Was In Sight

The end was in sight.  The California end, that is.  Anyone who knows Santa Barbara knows Chaucer's Books, started 35 years ago by an enterprising woman named Mahri Kerley.  A fabulous meal at Maestro with good friend, pastry chef Katy Renner, put us in the mood for our reading and signing at Chaucer's.  Eric Love, aptly named, took charge of the reading and was enthused about our book and presentation.  A thought-provoking discussion followed.

Though late, the drive back to Los Angeles followed the shimmering ocean path, lit by the glow of a huge, full cantaloup moon.

Barbara was particularly looking forward to Book Soup in West Hollywood, as she had lived in that area and had many friends from her years in the film industry.  The turnout was impressive:  friends and family were augmented by passers-by and bookstore browsers.  A glorious end to the California travels of the Pokras sisters.

Barbara flew back to New York and was joined a week later by Fran, and her daughter Gabriela.

Fran

Do you like coffee?

We should have known something was wrong when the cab driver who was taking us from Oakland to San Francisco admitted that he didn't know where the Marina was.  We were lulled by the fact that he seemed to know how to get to Davis and Jackson, where our friends would meet us at Starbucks.

"There it is," shouted Fran, spying a Starbucks across the street. 
"Make a u-turn," I added.

Noori, our driver obliged.  Did we mention it was pouring rain?  Why else take a cab from Oakland airport?  Who knew that little luxury would end up costing more than our plane ticket?

We waited patiently at Starbucks.  Time passed.  Fran called our friends, who supposedly lived right around the corner.
"We're at Starbucks," we announced.
"So are we," was the reply.
Duh, wrong Starbucks!
Finally united with our friends, we headed off to dinner, first stopping by Book's Inc. to introduce ourselves.  We were pleased to see an announcement of our reading posted by the door, along with a display of copies of the book.  Bob, in charge of the evening's event, welcomed us warmly.  We knew we were in good hands.

Book's Inc, the West's oldest independent bookseller, has been around since 1851.  The Marina store, located on Chestnut Street is spacious, well lit, and well organized.  It was impossible not to browse, and each of us bought books -- not our own.

Dinner at A16, just down the street, was fabulous.  After a shared dessert, we left the bookstore.  To skip ahead a bit, lunch the next day was something out of a Steve Martin comedy.  The restaurant, a new addition to the Embarcadero, was a study in casual elegance.  No fault could be found with the food.  Fran, however, made the mistake of ordering a cup of coffee.  Our overeager waiter snapped his fingers, and two more servers quickly appeared at his side. 
"Coffee?" said our man.  "We have a blend of beans from three African countries, and then there's Blue Bottle, a local favorite.  We have drip, Americano, French Press, automatic, full strength, half strength, decaffeinated...."
"French Press, Ugandan, Espresso, drip...."echoed the chorus.
"Which of those is like regular coffee?" Fran naively queried.
"I would recommend the French Press."
"Fine," said Fran.
"Which French Press would you like?"
"How many do you have?"
"We have three."
Fran's eyes were glazing over.  Thankfully, our friend intervened.

Our presentation at Book's Inc. was well received, and we stayed to answer questions, mostly about assisted living and the challenge of aging.  We also spoke about how we hoped the writing of the book would prepare of for our own golden years.  As we left, thankfully out of earshot of others, our brutally honest friend reminded us that, in his word, "You two are no spring chickens!"

The little gift of a Book's Inc. book bag and moleskin journal given to us by Bob, helped blunt the pain!  Next stop, Santa Barbara!

Sipping and Signing in Sonoma!

What better place to have a book signing than Sonoma, in the heart of the Wine Country?  First, though, we needed to get there, stopping for lunch along the way with friends in Tiburon.  We expected blue skies and were surprised and unprepared for the downpour on the day of our trip.  We assumed buying an umbrella would be a snap.  Shops sell umbrellas, right?  Wrong!  Not in Tiburon in May!  Thanks to the kindness of strangers, shop owners who took pity on us, we were able to borrow one and arrive at the restaurant only semi-soaked.  We were pleased to hear that the shop owner knew about our book and had already ordered a copy.  The reunion with our friends was wonderful.  Both of us had had working relationships with them, Barbara as a film editor and Fran as a writer.  When it comes to friendship, time seems to disappear and we pick up just where we left off.

And off we went to Sonoma, with Gladys, our GPS, giving us flawless directions to Reader's Books.  Located just a few doors from the historic Sonoma Plaza, where the Bear Flag Revolt took place in 1846, Reader's Books is a book lovers' paradise, superbly organized and boasting thousands of hard-to-find titles.  Owners Andy and Lilla Weinberger have been nurturing the literary appetites of the community for almost twenty years and clearly pride themselves on their personalized and knowledgeable service.

We arrived the day before our reading and had arranged to stay with friends on a lovely, idyllic farm boasting several charming cottages.  Our friends, sensational cooks, had planned a wonderful dinner complete with magnificent wines.  We slept well that night.

The lure of the grape was irresistible, and the next day we visited several wineries and tasted some glorious wines.  Sonoma is home to some of the best restaurants anywhere, one of which is just steps away from Reader's Books.  How could we resist?  After an incredible dinner, it was time for our reading.  The discussion that followed was the liveliest to date with penetrating questions and revealing insights into a whole range of issues -- everything from aging to the meaning of fiction, to the influence of spiritual practice on creativity and much, much more.

Fran went back to Los Angeles the next day, but Barbara decided to stay a few days longer and enjoy this incomparable setting.  After all, as Golde Moskowitz might say, "What's not to like?"

Next stop, SAN FRANCISCO!

San Jose -- What could go wrong?

What could go wrong?  Up at the crack of dawn for our 7:30am flight to San Jose.  The car, reserved, and plenty of time for a leisurely drive to Barnes and Noble.  We boarded on time, the jet engines revved -- and then stopped.   It's a good thing they noticed the oil leak before we went in the air!  A half hour later it was decided a replacement plane was needed.  Would we be on time for our signing?  We didn't know.  Thankfully, an hour later we were in the air.

Our rental car was not as advertised, and we hoped they would take pity on us and provide a car that we would feel safe in driving in unfamiliar territory.  Ultimately that happened -- though at a price.  Our advice to you -- when renting cars online, don't believe the photos represent the car you'll actually be offered.  Take a cue from online dating -- the photo may not represent the date who shows up at the door.

"Gladys," our faithful GPS, got us to the store on time.  There we found several simultaneous events, including a children's signing and guitar fest.  We hoped some of the parents would be drawn to our presentation.  We really enjoyed Barbara's family who showed up in force and took the pictures that accompany this blog.  Off to a celebratory lunch before hitting the road again. 

We spent the night with family in San Rafael, discovered a terrific restaurant -- Citrus and Spice -- and explored Bolinas, a tiny, hippy town accessible only by a mountainous road with hairpin turns and astonishing vistas.

Next stop, Sonoma!

Fran & Barbara

A Grand Slam!

Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena and Village Books in Pacific Palisades proved to be perfect-and well attended - venues for the launch of our book tour. At Vroman's, Southern California's largest independent bookstore, it was "standing room only." The first guest to arrive was a high school friend Barbara hadn't seen since Cadillacs had fins! And Fran's "Sandwich Club" (a group of women stuck between the needs of grown children while caring for older parents) showed up in force.

Village Books, a much smaller venue in Pacific Palisades, had to bring out lots of chairs to accommodate the crowd. Each of us read from the book, and, as promised, lively discussions ensued.

Not that there weren't a few gaffes. Barbara had a "brain freeze" and forgot the name of her brother-in-laws only brother. We hope he'll forgive her. And when we got home, Fran was convinced she left behind a bag of books intended as gifts for family and friends. After frantic searches and phone calls, she discovered she had unpacked the books and put them back on her bookshelf.

All in all, not bad for a couple of ditzy sisters! Stay tuned for more of our version of "On the Road."

Barbara and Fran

Musings Before the Signing

Our book tour begins this Friday. What could go wrong??? In my all-to-frequent dreams, everything! I realize I am a worrier, although I usually conceal my anxieties beneath a devil may care exterior. But I am coming clean. I ask myself, why are we doing this? The answers come easily enough. My sister and I co-authored a book. We're excited and proud. For me, it is validation after a long publishing dry spell. For my sister, it is her first fiction publication. We fee the book is good, as do our recent reviewers and we want to get a readership. Fine.

In our thinking, a book tour sounded like fun, a sisterly adventure. I sure hope that's what it turns out to be, but still. .... Perhaps my anxiety is increased because our first signing is a my local bookstore and most of the audience will be people I know. My husband thinks that's good. They will be able to provide feedback and will be supportive. I'd much rather have started in a place filled with strangers, so if I flub things, I never have to face them again.

I already made one mistake. In my emails to friends, I wrote the wrong time. When I discovered my blooper, I panicked, sent out another round of emails with the correct times a half hour earlier.

Here are some of the things I worry about. Have my friends already bought the book on Amazon thus insuring that they will show up to our discussion/signing and NOT buy a book at the bookstore. Embarrassing. I feel I am entertaining friends and acquaintances, so I've arranged for pastry and coffee. Now, I worry if there will be enough, and if the coffee will be set up. And, seeing as the signing is going to be at 7 pm rather than 7:30 pm, I worry that wine and cheese would have been the more appropriate choice for refreshments! Oh, well. When we first signed our contract and decided to do all we could to publicize our book, I told my sister, "Expect nothing, hope for everything." I think I will follow my advice, hope for the best, and enjoy the ride.

Fun is really what it's about. I look forward to the adventure. After Friday, that is.

Fran

P.S. Saturday morning. All the worrying for naught. It was a grand success. Onward!

Kindergarten and Book Tours!

It's the first day of school. Kindergarten. I must have been worried the day before. Worried and excited. Would the other children know something I was supposed to know? Just in case, I pulled as many books out of our library as I could handle at five years of age, and stacked them on the porch of our house on Maplewood Avenue. When my mother saw me she asked what I was doing. "I'm starting school tomorrow," I told her, "so I have to know how to read." Somewhere there's a photo taken that day.

Tomorrow is the "first day of school" again, our first discussion and reading at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena, Fran's neck of the woods, though some of my old and dear friends will be there. I don't feel nervous, and I am excited, but deep down I wonder if there's something I should know that everybody else knows. I'm no longer five, I've learned the bulk of what I need to get through life, but is there something else? If only I could remember, but "remember" is probably just what I need to know.

If "remember" is that "something," I confess to it. Memory is a problem that seems to come with age, at least for me. If I've seen a movie I struggle to remember the title days later. I no longer know the hottest stars, though I certainly recognize familiar names from my world, the editing community. My husband and I have learned to compensate with lists and quips about "senior moments." I'm not as facile with the quizzes in the "In Flight" magazines, and I often find myself reading the same paragraph several times to process what I've just read.

What has not diminished, however, is a deepening appreciation for my life and the lives of those I love. My older sister Fran has always been in my life. We've shared every emotion. Who would have expected us to share in the publication of "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz and The Caregiver" and begin this book tour together? Thank God we're friends! Now, let the adventure begin! Wait a minute....where did we put the airline tickets?

Saying Goodbye...

I'm off to California tomorrow to begin the book tour for "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz and The Caregiver," and while it's exciting to begin this adventure and reconnect with old friends, it's also necessary to say 'goodbye," for a while, to my life in Woodstock.


Taking leave of my husband is a complicated matter. It's the longest we've been apart in the eighteen years we've been together, and it's also the arena where the practical and emotional collide. I'll be away for nearly a month, and he'll have to take over some of the many tasks I normally do to keep our life together running smoothly. There are lists to be made, bills to be paid, endless details to attend to. Then there's our vacation rental business. He's never been "hands on," but that's about to change -- at least for a while. And of course, I'll miss him.


I'll miss my many friends, our dog Lucy, my kitchen, the vegetable garden I'm entrusting to a neighbor, and the awkward, amusing wild turkey family that sometimes crosses our road. The delightful Woodstock Wednesday Farm Festival will begin in my absence, as will the Saturday Flea Market where odd little treasures can be unearthed.




Aside from Lucy the dog, I've grown fond of other creatures. I save my vegetable scraps for a lively flock of chickens who live nearby. Their eggs always delicious and never "uniform" like those found in stores, are special treats for guests staying at The Waterfall House. This year's flock includes hens that lay green eggs. I love feeding the chickens and chose to spend time with them on my birthday this past winter.



Then there's the cow and the calf and the horse. I like to take the long way home by the pasture so I can spend a few moments with these creatures. I first saw the calf a few days after her birth. She's grown. She's a little "Buddha" calf. When she's not nursing or exploring the meadow, she sits on her haunches gazing at the newness of her world. Her mother, a black beauty with a white blaze on her face, is never far from her, nor is Thunder, the wild mustang. A neighborhood woman who visits daily has only to call his name, and the horse comes running to eat the carrots she brings. He's generous with his big, sloppy kisses and loves to nuzzle the woman. Stopping to spend a few moments in this pastoral setting is a meditation.

The poppies will bloom, the calf will grow bigger, and I will have stories to tell, so please "stay tuned" and ride this adventure with me.

Barbara

How We Decide!

My husband has been reading the best-seller "How We Decide," by Jonah Lehrer, a book about decision making. Over breakfast, he told me why, according to scientific research, there is a gene which causes some people to make the same poor choices over and over again, not learning from their mistakes.

I don't think I fall into that unfortunate category, but I got to thinking about some of the choices I've made in my life, and why I made them. Some were clearly rational decisions, such as deciding to get a teaching credential after a year of poorly-paid, boring office work. On the other hand, leaving teaching after two years, falls into the emotional category. After my first year of teaching English in an inner-city high school in L.A. I took my first trip to Europe with two girl friends. We did it up right -- Eurail passes, numerous countries from England, to Portugal, Spain, France, Italy, Austria and Germany. Adventures galore.

In the fall, I returned to work and looked around the teachers' lounge at the veterans. They were worn-down, discouraged, complaining constantly about the students, principal, and parents! Did I want to be one of them in thirty years? Europe had shown me there was a big, exciting world outside of the teachers' lounge. I finished the year and quit.

Which decision was smarter? I believe both were good. I had the credentials and eventually became a substitute (no homework to correct) and knew I would always have something to fall back on. Quitting allowed me to try my wings at more adventurous jobs, such as the assistant to the general manager of the play, "Hair."

Looking back, most of my important decisions seem to have worked out for the best, however, there is one I wonder about. During that exploratory period I was offered a low level position in a literary agency. I was an English major; loved reading. I turned it down because the commute seemed inconvenient. Hard to believe in retrospect. I cannot help wondering what my life would have been had I taken the job. Would I have become a respected literary agent? I think I'd have made a good one. Maybe one of the good things about life is not knowing how things might have been.

I wonder if others also wonder about the fork in the road and consequences of the road not taken.

Fran

Being Invisible!

Some say women are "invisible" after forty. The only time it really bothers me is when I'm trying to get a salesperson to acknowledge me so I can complete my transaction and be on my way. Of course, it would be nice to have someone flirt with me occasionally, but even that's no great loss; I've got a good husband who sees past the wrinkles.

So what's so bad about being invisible? Not everyone can do it. I know it wouldn't work for my husband. He's the "peacock" and being the center of attention suits him, and it suits me, too, because it allows me to observe. To observe is one of the benefits of "invisibility." If you've spent time in a big city, you know what I mean. In an urban setting, nearly everyone thinks they're invisible.

My husband collects antiques. I collect "moments," little bits of sensory nuggets. Here's the last little bit garnered from a recent trip to the city. A young woman, walking while talking on her cell phone somewhere around 33rd and Broadway, said to her friend, "I told him to bring me something vegan. And you know what he brought me? A stuffed animal."

I could not have made that up. What a rich little nugget! Now, don't you agree there's something to be said for being "invisible?"

Barbara

The other day I read about a woman undergoing treatment for breast cancer. In the article she expressed her gratitude for the online sites, such as Caring Bridge, which allow people with serious illnesses to easily keep friends, family and acquaintances up to date on their treatment. I won't presume to pass judgement. Having undergone treatment four times for cancer, I know everyone deals with these traumas in his or her own way. What the story did was to remind me how drastically our culture has changed. We've gone from "don't talk about it" to Twitter.
When I was growing up, people kept personal issues private. Everything, it seemed, was a secret. Marital problems and illness were among the real no-nos. "Nervous breakdown" was the general term used when someone disappeared for a while. It implied everything from anxiety to full-fledged insanity. Cancer was a word to be avoided, or whispered. When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer thirty years ago, my mother-in-law wrote a lovely letter, concluding with "don't worry. I won't tell anyone" even though I did not swear her to secrecy.

Today, of course, people believe their every feeling, experience and activity is worthy of being shared with the world at large. It's my guess that the openness of the 60's and the Internet are responsible. So, I ask myself, which do I prefer? Offhand, the elimination of the "society of secrecy" is a positive. People who are in failing relationships, or are diagnosed with serious illnesses should not be made to feel shame or guilt. I am grateful when good friends confide problems and experiences, but at the same time, I find it annoying to be the recipient of constant less than earth-shattering news from acquaintances. Sort of like the lengthy Christmas letters sent en masse describing every trip, family gathering, and on and on.

The question I ask myself, is have we as a society become so self-involved that we take for granted the world is interested in our everyday comings and goings? If so, is it a generational thing? Just wondering.

Fran

What is this thing called age?

Let's sing to the tune of, "What is This Thing Called Love? Better yet, let's talk about "age". We humans are strange creatures. We're the only creatures on the planet who count time chronologically -- that is, by "numbers."

If age is a number, why don't I feel like that number? In my case, it's a "big" number, or so it seems right now, at this moment in time. If I'm lucky enough to be around in, let's say, ten years, I'm sure to think the number I'm at now is better than that future number. Looking back, the number I was twenty years ago seemed like a big number, but not as big as the number I am right now.

I say, let's get rid of numbers. Let's substitute "seasons." We -- each of us -- gets to choose which season we are in, and we can even go backwards or forwards if we want. Just for "starters," here are some suggested "seasons." See what you think, and feel free to add your own.

1. "The New Season" -- this begins at birth, and might go through childhood. Also called, "The Season of Innocence."
2. When you're ready, you are free to go on to "The Learning Season." You might want to go back to this later in life. It works for the school years. Some might call it "The Growing Season."
3. "The Hormony Season," is a synthesis of: "hormones" and "horny" sometimes, but not always, leads to "harmony." Often a lengthy and turbulent season.
4. "The Experience Season" could follow, but again, feel free to choose and name your own seasons. You know you better that anyone else!
5. Then there's "The Wisdom Season," or maybe "The Season of Ah-Hah!" Some of us experience a certain "wistfulness," but this season, in my opinion, is no less full than the others.

You get the idea, now. For my part, I'm not a number. I'm a first-time published author of a novella, "Feeding Mrs Moskowitz and The Caregiver: Two Stories," with my sister, Fran Yariv. I run a vacation rental business (http://www.waterfallrental.com/) along with my husband, and we married eighteen years ago when I thought I was a "big number." I'll take "seasons" over numbers any day. Care to join me?

Barbara

The Best Part of the Day!

The best part of my day is drinking my morning coffee while reading the local paper. To be honest, the first thing I check out is the weather forecast on the upper right of the front page. The local paper gives me updates on what's going on in my community. I enjoy the ongoing debates over new construction, preserving historic buildings, and keeping the arts alive. I glance at the society page to see if I know any of the formally dressed people at various charity events. And then, of course, there are the obits, but I won't dwell on that.

Last week, a headline caught my attention. "Elderly Man Robs 2 Area Banks." The article started out by saying, "A man dubbed the 'Golden Years Bandit' has robbed two banks." How weird, I thought, and read on. Weirder still, was the description of the bandit: "a white man of large build with gray hair and gray mustache who appears to be in his 50's or 60's." FIFTIES OR SIXTIES!!!!

I nearly choked on my coffee. Since when did the adjective elderly describe people in their 50's or 60's? When I hear "elderly" I think of fragile, white-haired people with canes , or in wheelchairs, people surely in their 80's or 90's. The 50 and 60 year olds I know are physically active, play tennis or golf, or hike. In my mind, they are middle-aged. Maybe I am in denial, but elderly seems a long way off, particularly today, when people enjoy longer life spans.

I'll bet the writer is a person in his or her twenties or thirties. I wonder if he or she would describe him or herself as "middle aged." The article made me wonder if passersby think of me as elderly. I'd be interested to hear your opinion on what age constitutes elderly.

Best, Fran

Appreciating the "pack rat"

My mother never threw anything away, a trait that annoyed me to no end. I'm not talking garbage -- she was fastidious in that respect. We used to tease her about sterilizing the outside of oranges before peeling. But she saved papers, letters, bills, pictures, and receipts. When I could escape her eagle eye, I'd toss out outdated sales slips and the like. Every so often I would say to her, "Why don't we go through all these papers and throw away the ones you don't need." The Queen would always agree. She'd point to a drawer and suggest we start there. One by one, she would study an outdated grocery coupon or a sales slip. On a good day, we might eliminate a quarter of the drawer's contents. I instinctively knew when to leave well enough alone.

Occasionally, she would say, "Let's go through the closet." I always fell for it. I'd pull out a dress that hadn't been worn in twenty years and hold it up. She would consider, then say, "put it back." The closet was a lost cause, but she seemed to enjoy the process.

To be fair, there was one time when her need to hold on to correspondence paid off. When her application for long-term health care was denied, the reason given was she had failed to respond to the renewal letter. Knowing that the letter must be somewhere, she and I went through her piles of folders. There was no letter. I requested a copy. There was no proof that such a letter had ever been sent to her, and after an exhausting battle, the insurance was reinstated.

I did not appreciate the positive aspect of my mother's pack rat mentality until she passed away. My sister and I were left with the daunting task of going through 70 odd years of saved papers. The photographs were easy. We kept the old family pictures, and made copies for relatives. Our mother kept every report card we had received, from kindergarten on, and it was fun to look back and laugh at teacher comments like "lacks self control" or "talks too much."

More interesting, however, were our mother's old college papers. I always knew she was intelligent, but until I read those papers and reports, I did not realize how intelligent she was. She hung on to all the evaluations she received from her superiors when she became a social worker in her mid-life. It goes without saying they were all terrific. It wasn't until I came to the boxes filled with family letters, that I came to fully appreciate her reluctance to part with her papers.

Among the most treasured for me were letters to my uncles (who were in the army) from my grandmother, Jennie, usually filled with humorous descriptions of everyday events. One described a restaurant outing where I was a "perfect lady" while my sister "threw food on the floor and made a fuss which the 'fancy' people didn't like." Another told of my sister's birthday party during which I started a fight with her. "But they kissed and made up," she ended the letter.

Especially poignant were letters from my mother's brothers. Our uncle Moey, a navigator, wrote in detail of his experiences in Italy and North Africa. Uncle Harry wrote funny letters to Barbie and me from the VA hospital.

Perhaps the most meaningful letters my mother saved, were the many ones I wrote to her from college and after. Now, I know what people mean when they talk about revisionist history. There, in my handwriting, is the young, real me. And, my confidences illuminate my relationship to my mother during those, for me, intense years.

To sum it all up, I now firmly believe being a "pack rat" has its good side. My mother left a treasured legacy in those old letters. And, despite how annoyed I used to get at her "clutter," I look through my filing cabinets and boxes stacked in the closet and find that I have held on to all of my daughter's report cards, notes, hand-drawn pictures, toys and baby clothes. I trust that one day she will value them as I do.

Best, Fran

Princess and the Queen

The other day seemed like the first day of spring -- or rather, the first day of spring-like weather, nearly 60 degrees, and yes, we have earned it, through it may be an illusion. It was the first day warm enough to sit on the deck with a book. I'm battling a cold and hoping the sun will banish my symptoms.

Lucy, our blind dog, keeps me company. Despite her disability, she has mastered her environment. I love watching her navigate the steps. She uses her muzzle and her paw to determine where they start. Then she descends, front paws first, then hind legs. The effort gives her an endearing waddle, and with her tail up, she's the canine equivalent of the back end of a 747.

We grew up with dogs, and I always loved them. Not all of them lived to "doggy dotage." Our mother, though not really an "animal person," developed a close bond with Princess, a cocker spaniel so sweet the people who gave her to us wanted her back the same day. Too late. We loved her from the very start.

When the Queen took out the broom, it was Princess's cue to hop on, and the two of them would waltz around the kitchen. I don't believe our mother ever loved a dog the way she loved that one.

Princess matured, and thanks to the constant treats, she gained weight. Our mother dubbed her "the horse." She and my father seldom took trips together, but they did spend a weekend at Grossingers, a famous Catskill resort catering to a Jewish clientele.

It was a stormy weekend, and Fran and I were left at home. Our mother called us from one of the very public pay phones. "Girls, be sure to bring the horse in the house." I'm sure eyebrows were raised, but knowing our mother, I'm certain no explanation was given.

Barbara

Free Gift

No such thing as a free lunch, the saying goes. But where my mother was concerned, that didn't apply to charity solicitations. In her later years, when she was living in various retirement homes and then in an apartment with her caregiver, she looked forward to going through her mail with me. This was the ritual. I'd bring the mail to her room and we'd sit down. I should mention that her mail consisted of bills, catalogs and solicitations. I'd pick up an envelope and read the return address. "AT&T." "Pay it," she'd say, and I'd start a pile for bills, which I paid with her checks (that's another story I will relate another time). I'd hold up a catalog. "Toss it," was her usual response, so into the wastebasket it went. You get the idea. But then I would inevitably pick up an envelope from The Humane Society. "Is there a gift with purchase?" she'd ask. I'd take her letter opener and slit open the envelope and hand the letter over. She'd shake her head in disapproval if the gift turned out to be address labels with pictures of appealing looking dogs. "Throw it away," she'd say. However, if the "free gift" turned out to be a little blanket, or better yet, an umbrella adorned with an image of an animal, that was it. "How much?" she'd ask. I'd read her the suggested donation amounts, and after careful consideration, she would choose the lowest donation that would entitle her to the gift. Whenever we went out, the Queen would be in her wheelchair, her makeup on, her outfit carefully chosen, especially her ever-present hat, and always, a Humane Society or PETA blanket over her knees. The thing I never really figured out was why she loved those little blankets and umbrellas. You see, she was the first to admit she was not an animal lover, although we'd grown-up with dogs. It must have been she couldn't refuse a "free gift." Now that I think of it, she only bought cosmetics in department stores when there was a "free gift with purchase." Well, why not?

Best, Fran

Snow Day

Just last week we had a "Norman Rockwell" snow day. It began the night before. By morning it was magical, everything draped in a mantle of bright white. Huge, "Ivory Soap" snow flakes came down from the heavens. It was glorious for us; not so for the many in our region who lost power, some for days!

Those of us who were unaffected by the outages had a chance to share our good fortune and offer a hot meal and a warm bed to friends. Our overnight guest had endured three terrifying nights in the dark and cold.

And yet, I've always favored winter. I'm comforted by warm layers of clothing and lots of quilts on the bed. Woodstockers leave en masse in winter: Florida and Mexico are frequent destinations. In past years, we too, have escaped. This year, we chose to stay. I like to feel I've earned the Spring, that day when, just when I think winter will never end I walk outside, and there they are, the first buds on the trees!

I suspect the Queen loved winter, too. We grew up in Connecticut and winters were harsh. But the snow never deterred our mother. I hold vivid memories of her on a snowy day, needing a book more than the warmth. Off she went, on foot, to the lending library, wool coat, gloves, hat, seamed stockings and high heels. Off she went, a tall, proud, lone figure off to the lending library on a snow swept winter day.

Well, I've gone and done it!

Well, I've gone and done it! Not quite a hand basket to hell, no, not THAT bad. Disingenuous? Certainly. I didn't mean for it to go quite as far as it went.

"I'll just do a little bit," she said. "We'll take it slowly, see how you like it. We can always add more."

I could have believed her, but I'm not entirely innocent. After all, I watched as she partitioned, then slid slices of my hair, my gray-white hair, slathered them with cream-brown-green slosh, and made tin foil sandwiches all over my head. Truth be told, I liked the look before the tin foil came off. I looked absolutely aerodynamic, space-age chic, a "Martian Matron."

Don't get me wrong. I LIKE my gray, but I'm not a "virgin." In the past, I routinely -- and sometimes disastrously -- colored my hair. The "disastrous" part has to do with upkeep, always a personal shortcoming. After a while, my auburn hair would fade to pink. Well-meaning friends would pull me aside and point to my two-inch long roots. When I met my husband in 1991, he liberated me with seven simple words: "I think gray-haired women are sexy." I didn't skip a beat. "I think I can oblige you," I said, and that was that.

Later, when we moved from Los Angeles to New York, I discovered low maintenance "low lights," the perfect compromise. Leave most of the "salt," but just add back a pinch of "pepper," and I grew to trust master colorist Gary Collins, a sweet, gentle man who worked out of his apartment on West 16th Street while his little Yorkshire Terrier, Gracie, bounced around the room chasing myriad objects. Then we moved to Woodstock where gray is good.

My mother, the Queen, never colored her hair. She must have thought gray is good and white is wonderful because she withstood the pressure all of us -- sisters and daughters -- brought to bear. But the Queen was proud. Whatever her reasons, she chose to put them in that private, impenetrable place where secrets reside, a place where she remains unknowable, safe from the probing of all who sought to unravel her complicated being.

When I awake this morning and look in the mirror, I see a stranger and it is not altogether unpleasant. It's me and it's not me. I see that I am mutable. I wonder what the Queen would have said.

It's GOOD to be old!

Fran, you just don't get it! It's GOOD to be old! It's even -- perish the thought -- good to LOOK old, especially if you're frugal and love a bargain. Gray hair is especially useful. You get a head start on the privileges of age before you even get there! Those lines and wrinkles? They may not look great, but nine out of ten times they'll get you a seat on the subway at rush hour, and that's no small feat. Shoot a pathetic look at the young person sitting, and it's guaranteed. Lest you think movies and grocery stores are the only perks, think again. Be creative! Buying a new mattress? Ask for a senior discount and you'll probably get it. And don't stop there. My favorite line -- after, "senior discount, please," is, "Is that the best you can do?" You'd be amazed how effective it can be. So, why be young and pay retail? Age has it's advantage, and it's not just wisdom.

Best, Barbara

Senior Discounts

There are a few positives about growing older. I'm not ashamed to ask for a senior ticket at the movies, or when I book a flight.

Now, every Tuesday is "senior discount day" at my local gourmet market. If I need some special items - or even if I don't - I usually stop by. Looking around, it's obvious I am not the only one lured in by the senior discount.

So I make my way around the aisles, stopping to avail myself of the delicious little samples and the mini cup of coffee, then head to the checkout line. The clerk begins to ring up my purchase.

I wonder if I should tell her "senior discount, please." Most of the time, I wait until my items are all tallied. Then one of three things happens:

1. The clerk rings up the total forgetting the discount.
2. The clerk asks if I am eligible for the discount.
3. The clerk automatically deducts the senior discount.

Which feels best? Number one makes me think either he or she is being polite assuming I could not possibly be of age to qualify for the discount, or he or she is not paying attention. Number two makes me feel the clerk is following the manager's orders to flatter the senior customer by asking. Surely we both know I qualify. Number three makes me wonder if it's time to invest in cosmetic fillers.

Which approach do I prefer? Number three is the easiest - I simply pay and wheel my cart out. Number two requires only a simple yes. Number one means I have to ask for the discount and I wonder if doing so is undignified.

But the most demeaning thing of all occurs as I head for the exit. A young male employee smiles disarmingly. I return his smile. He asks, "Did you find everything, young lady?" YOUNG LADY!

Later, I ask my husband if a salesperson ever addresses him as "young man." He thinks, then replies: "No, but at some point they began calling me 'sir.'

Best, Fran

Is there such a thing as a "Survivor Gene?"

If there is such a thing as a "Survivor Gene" -- and I'm convinced there is -- my mother, The Queen, had it. Sometimes, she carried things a bit too far. Like refusing to leave her half-demolished apartment building.

The real-state magnate owner of the building mailed eviction notices informing the tenants the building was to be razed and they had 30 days to move. Two weeks later, the bulldozers suddenly began their assault. Of course, the owner's action was illegal and dangerous, but remaining in a building that resembled Dresden after the bombing was equally dangerous. The tenants fled, all except my mother and her good friend and neighbor. More outraged at the injustice than fearful of their safety, they stayed. I recall my daughter, a little girl at the time, telling me she was afraid to visit Nana because the stairs "were broken." My mother and her friend organized the former tenants, hired an attorney and sued the owner. I celebrated with them when they were awarded a cash settlement. Of course, Mater and her friend still had to move, but having stood up for themselves in the face of injustice made the ordeal easier. It also taught me a good lesson: stand up for yourself when you believe your rights have been violated.

The real-estate magnate is still around, frequently honored as a "Man of the Year" by the various charities he funds.

Best, Fran

I still miss her!

It's been two years since our mother died. I still miss her and sometimes she appears in my dreams-alive and well. That's not to say she was easy. I never knew what to expect.

Our nicknames for her were: Mater, the "Big M" (her name was Mildred), and lastly, "the Queen" -- a name bestowed on her by her caregiver, a name the Big M loved.

What she was, was unique. She had a quick wit, and as she grew older, she became less and less politically correct. One day I wheeled her into the medical building elevator. A heavy woman entered just as the doors were about to close. The Queen looked her up and down, then said in her customary stage whisper, "There's a weight limit on this elevator!" I wanted to disappear. People pretended they didn't hear her. By the way, the Big M was a bit on the plump side herself.

I'll never forget one of the many times she was in the hospital. She was notorious for playing the call button as if it were a pinball machine. One day when the nursed failed to respond quickly enough, the Queen took matters into her own hands and called 911. "I need help," she told the person on the line. "Where are you?" they asked. "Second floor, Cedars Sinai Hospital," she replied. I think that was when my mother became my role model for being one's own advocate!

Tell me some of your favorite memories of your mother!

Best, Fran

Hi, I'm Barbara author of "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz"

Let me start by saying, though I dearly love my sister, it's really annoying that I look older than she does, especially as I'm the younger one! Fran inherited our mother's fine bone structure and perfect teeth. I don't think either of them ever had a cavity! Life isn't fair, but then again, that's a lesson we learned early on from Ben, our father, a distant and difficult man. Early photos reveal a handsome couple; he a young lawyer, and our mother a recent college graduate with a degree in journalism. There are no later pictures of the two of them together.

They were a match made in heaven -- and in hell! Dinner time at our home was straight out of Marat-Sade, with Mater (our mother's nickname) often making an offending item for dinner that she knew our father hated. Baked potatoes were particularly lethal. Sitting across the dinner table, Fran and I would look at each other, squirming; we knew what was coming. We prepared for the inevitable explosion. Dinner was served, a baked potato sitting squarely on each plate. A build-up of tension, and then our father, outraged, would scream at our mother: MILDRED, YOU KNOW I HATE BAKED POTATOES! WHY DID YOU MAKE ME A G-D DAMNED BAKED POTATO!

Mater would run to the kitchen in tears while Ben fumed and Fran and I sat frozen, waiting to be excused from the table. As long as I can remember, we called our mother, "Mater." Later, as she aged, she became "the Queen." It suited her.

Anyway, Fran saw "Meet Me in Saint Louie" seventeen times during that time, hoping to create the family we never had. And I......well, more to come!

Hi, I'm Fran Yariv author of "The Caregiver"

I'm the oldest, so I think I should go first. I'm a fiction writer (six novels). My sister, Barbara, is an Emmy award-winning (daytime) film editor. Our book "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz and The Caregiver: Two Stories" is publishing this spring with Syracuse University Press. It consists of two novellas, "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz," by Barbara, and "The Caregiver," by me. Both stories explore the world of the elderly with, what we've been told, "humor and pathos." For me -- ten years of advocating for our elderly mother through three assisted-living facilities inspired "The Caregiver." I'll leave it up to sister to tell you about her inspiration for "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz."

Welcome

We're excited about our new book publishing in late April, "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz & The Caregiver," and we can't wait to share it with you. Here's the catalog copy that Syracuse University Press put out on the book this month:

In this pair of moving, gracefully poignant novellas, sisters Pokras and Yariv explore the world of the elderly with deft humor and heart-wrenching detail. Pokras's "Feeding Mrs. Moskowitz" introduces us to the remarkable Golde Moskowitz, an elderly Russian widow living alone with her memories. In Golde's world, "signs" are everywhere, the dead converse with the living, and dreams are real. Natalie Holtzman, a thirty-six-year-old graphic artist longing for connection, fills her world with work and with Artie, her commitment-wary boy-friend. One sweltering summer morning, Natalie quite literally "runs into" Golde, and the lives of both women are forever changed.

Yariv's "The Caregiver" unfolds in a series of stories, revealing the inner workings of Sunset Hills, a fictional upscale assisted-living facility in Hollywood. Narrated by Ofelia Hernandez, a young latina caregiver, the stories capture both the mundane routines and the absurdities of the residents' lives. With deep empathy and subtle humor, Yariv crafts intimate portraits of characters whose passion, intensity, and intelligence are only magnified with age.