Family

All Poems, Emotions, Family, Spouses, Stories

Electric Garage Door

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Let’s open the garage and sneak out, whispered Bob.

Adding, forefinger to lips, and not tell Bob.

He looked at me with a glint in his eye.

Joining me in conspiracy against that grumpy Bob.

The one who, only days ago, chided me.

For opening and closing the electric garage door too many times.

Using too much electricity.

Raising our electric bill.

Which, by the way, he never sees.

Because I pay it!

The accusation startled me.

Shocked me into silence.

For, in my mind, it was he.

Opening and closing the door with abandon.

Opening it to exit with his leki stick, stored there.

Or his electric vehicle.

Driving it to the store, park, train station.

Then parking it again inside.

Protecting it from rain and snow.

So when I took umbrage, he reconsidered.

Apologized for the tongue lashing.

Saying he didn’t know what part of him spewed those words.

But, my displeasure persisted.

Each time I went to open the garage door, I asked permission.

Wearying him enough to become my partner in conspiracy.

Against the Bob from whom

even he now felt offended.

Both laughing pressing buttons.

Hurt evaporating, mended!

Lynn Benjamin

June 26, 2024

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Pleasure, Spring Lake 2024, Stories, Trips and Places

Shopper

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I am not a shopper.

Never rejoicing in scanning racks.

Full of colorful jackets, skirts, dresses.

Seeking the perfect size, price point.

Especially now when service in most stores, diminished.

Unlike my childhood days at the Blum Store.

When attendants hovered about to help.

But, my daughter, like her grandmother, loves the sport.

Knowing well her style, her colors, what suits her.

Going at it like a hunt.

Checking tags, touching materials.

Gathering her prey to try on.

In tiny mirrored dressing rooms.

I like watching her movements.

Lithe, limber, full of energy.

Animating her, making eyes wider, smile broader.

As she zeroes in on her mark.

So, when I’m with her, I, too, delight.

Wake up from languidness.

Catch her zest, resilience,

joy in nailing the prize.

Deftly pull out my credit card

to join her exercise!

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 17, 2024

Adult Children, All Poems, Beaches, Family, Food, Humor, Spring Lake 2024, Stories, Trips and Places

Breakfast in Spring Lake

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Roseanne determined she had to catch a mid-afternoon train.

To get back to Manhattan.

On time to meet her children.

So, I suggested a light breakfast, late lunch.

For our Father’s Day celebration.

First going for savory croissants.

Which the bakery was out of.

Substituting an Irish soda bread.

Packed with plump dark raisins.

Grabbing drinks, finding a shady spot to picnic.

Each pulling off corners of the bread.

Savoring it between swigs of coffee.

This would be even better with jam, said Roseanne.

Then after another bite or two, or butter.

Well, I countered, this way it’s au naturel. You taste the bread exactly the way it is.

Like seeing a woman without make-up, coif.

Without latest fashion design.

Standing before you just how she is,

original state, divine.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 16, 2024

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Humor, Spring Lake 2024, Stories, Trips and Places

Pitch Dark

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It was pitch dark.

As Roseanne and I walked along the park in Spring Lake.

Searching for the last ice cream shop still open.

She arrived late by train from Manhattan.

The only adult child able to join us for our trifecta celebration.

Birthday, Anniversary, Father’s Day.

So, our dinner began later, too.

Long and leisurely.

Also known as slow service.

Sitting outside as the sun set after nine.

This town, quiet, sedate.

Even on Saturday nights, places shutting down early.

Bob urged Roseanne and me to set out.

He, staying behind to pay the bill.

Neither of us, sure where the dessert place was.

We marched, hoping in the right direction.

It was hard to follow the google map app directions.

Who can read street signs without light?

Let alone see the sidewalk ahead.

Street lamps, either extinguished or dim.

Call Dad, Roseanne suggested.

I resisted saying we’d either find it or not.

Thinking we wouldn’t make it before closing.

But, he’ll tell us if we’re close or not, she insisted.

Again, I demurred.

Okay, she shrugged, he’ll soon be calling you.

Then she mimicked his voice, I’m here. Where are you?

Only ten steps later, the phone dinged.

I’m here at the shop. Where are you? Bob asked.

Then he reassured us we were on the right path.

I turned to Roseanne, how did you know he’d call?

She laughed like Brer Rabbit at the briar patch.

You two are a comedy routine.

She knows us like a book.

Fifty years observing us

with scrutinizing look!

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 15, 2024

All Poems, Beaches, Family, Spouses, Stories

To the Beach

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We finally made it to the beach, said Bob.

After getting waylaid by an Irish festival.

We didn’t know was happening in Spring Lake.

Then walking the town seeking sun hats, cards, a baby gift.

Even a container of almonds.

Having forgotten to bring some from home.

But we did, finally, make it to the sand.

After the afternoon tide rolled in.

Crowds of revelers already planted with their umbrellas.

This Father’s Day weekend.

Bathers, surfers, kayakers, paddle ballers.

Piles of empty mussel shells upon the shore.

Crunching under bare feet.

As we meandered along.

Listening to the steady rhythm of the surf.

Smelling briny breezes.

Taking in the annual scene.

For the first time this season.

Always glad for ocean zephyrs

to blow away the stress.

Ancient balm for body, soul,

rejuvenating process.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 15, 2024

 

All Poems, Emotions, Family, Grandchildren, Loss, Stories

Easy to Forget

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It’s easy to forget.

The longing eleven-year-olds have for companionship.

Yearning for company of family members.

Before the adolescent push for friends.

Elias articulated wishes to be with parents, siblings.

Disappointment when they, occupied with work or school.

Or social media or sleep.

So, Bob and I, grandparents, seized every second of each moment.

To spend time with him.

During his short foray here.

On Shavuot while his mother worked.

Enjoying meals together on the deck, in the atrium.

Making protein shakes.

Taking him to exercise classes.

Miniature golf, the supermarket.

Meandering the neighborhood.

Seeking foxes, deer, bunnies.

Hummingbirds, butterflies.

Watering the garden.

Listening endlessly.

To what he’s learned.

Science, economics, botany.

Observations about the world.

Worries about personal maladies.

Most of all, his desires.

To hang out with parents, siblings.

In these days of hustle bustle,

when everyone’s plugged in,

hard to find time and space

to bond with closest kin.

Familial hungering, sad.

Though grandparents fill holes,

the child knows those he really wants,

and itemizes woes.

Lynn Benjamin

June 14, 2024

All Poems, Family, Grandchildren, Gym/exercise, Health/Illness

Exercise Class

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It’s really fun, said Elias.

Talking about the exercise class at Salus.

The one we got him a special waiver to attend with us.

Now saying he’d like to take two classes tomorrow.

Before returning to New York.

One to strengthen core.

The second, yoga.

Both for stretching.

Moving arms, legs.

Maintaining balance.

For learning.

How to bend with pipes.

Pull elastic bands.

Carry weights.

Do dead bugs.

All novel for an eleven-year-old.

Not used to tuning every muscle.

Novel for us grandparents, too.

Maybe adding a little extra time to well-worn bodies.

Who would ever dream he and we could benefit?

Together?

Same trainer?

Child and parents of his mother?

But, the three of us, we fit

like colorful lego bricks.

All eager to build and master

physical wellness tricks.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 13, 2024

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Holidays, Jewish Holidays, Memories, Mother Love, Regret, Shavuot, Stories

Shavuot

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It fills me with song.

To see a pair of Sketchers, size four.

Next to our sneakers on the floor.

Sign that Elias is here, a day or two.

While his mother davens in New City.

He, off from school for Shavuot.

Holiday when Moses received the Ten Commandments.

Marking my own confirmation, sixty years ago.

Right here at Adath Jeshurun, Elkins Park.

The first time reading a poem I composed.

To an entire congregation.

Feeling excitement, anticipation, vulnerability.

A rush, sharing thoughts with others.

Meditation on time, hope, truth, death, life.

Being acknowledged.

By friends, family, rabbi.

My daughter, one year short of cantorial degree, surprised.

When I told her I hold dear this holiday.

For she, at semester’s conclusion, ready to move past it to summer.

Until hired as guest chazan.

Preparing herself to chant.

For two lunar days.

In a blink, it became important to her, too.

This spring holiday, completion of the counting of the Omer.

Unexpected revelation between my daughter and me.

A story I wished I could tell my mother.

Along with appreciation for the party she made me.

At fifteen, after the Shavuot service.

Recognizing me.

Letting me know I belong.

To a larger cosmology.

Something I didn’t know then to thank her for.

Though she knew how to give.

So, I’ll scatter seeds of gratitude,

beseeching she’ll forgive.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 12, 2024

Daven is the Yiddish word meaning to chant the Jewish liturgy or pray.

Chazan is a cantor in a synagogue.

The counting of the Omer is a period of 49 days from the second day of Passover until the first day of Shavuot. During this time, marriage festivities are prohibited.

All Poems, Change, Cousins, Electronics, Emotions, Family, Stories, Weddings

Waiting for the Call

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I started waiting for the call at three.

The first part of the time frame established.

Earlier in the week.

Saturday, between three and five.

I texted, asking if he was ready to talk.

No answer.

So, I continued working on my laptop.

Till Bob suggested a walk.

I guess he forgot, I lamented.

As we spun around the neighborhood.

Upon return, WhatsApp tinged.

Asking pardon for not calling.

He was at the gym.

Forgot his phone.

Can I call soon? he typed.

Very soon, I replied. We’ll be eating in half an hour.

Two minutes, flashed the reply.

In two, the cell rang.

My young cousin from Santiago.

Whom we hosted seventeen years ago.

So he could attend high school in Upper Dublin.

Learn English, see some sites.

Philadelphia, Baltimore, DC, Boston.

Now telling me his wedding date.

Could we come to Chile?

And, maybe in two years, we could meet in New York.

He and his wife, coming to the US for a month in Spring, 2026.

It was a conversation full of details, news.

Lots of catch-up.

Family, career, life in general.

Did I mention?  It was all in Spanish.

Soft tones of Santiago.

Not the jarring sh sounds of Buenos Aires.

Martín doesn’t yet speak English.

I did my best, listening, responding.

In my rusty Spanish.

I think I got the gist.

The important information.

The sense of being remembered.

Not mislaid in life’s press.

Joy of reconnection.

Soul-warming blessedness.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 9, 2024

All Poems, Change, Family, People Traits, Spouses, Stories, Wisdom

Breaking Rules

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It seems all the rage now to break rules.

Mock speed limits.

Tread on property not your own.

Walk dogs where prohibited.

Modeled by legislators who trespass yet more.

Flout election laws.

Defy official subpoenas.

Take bribes.

Making light of prohibitions, regulations.

Often sliding by without consequences.

Have you ever been tempted to disregard a sign?

For convenience?

Momentary ease?

Out of frustration?

Pulling into a parking space to go shopping?

One, designated for a tenant in an adjacent building?

Like Bob did the other day.

Because the lot looked full.

Telling me he’d park for just a moment.

In the spot marked for apartment 202.

He’d put on his blinkers.

Run in, then run out.

I glared at him.

Superego screaming, no.

Challenged him: What if #202 returns home?

Needs to park, race inside?

What if it were your space?

It only took a moment.

For my scruples to rouse his.

He got back into the car, moved it.

I was glad my restless conscience

could deter his moral lapse.

For obeying signage on the streets,

keeps society from collapse.

Lynn Benjamin

June 8, 2024