Adult Children

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

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.

Adult Children, All Poems, Emotions, Family, Grandchildren, Holidays, Mother's Day

Early on Mother’s Day

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It was early on Mother’s Day.

When Eliana, seven, phoned from the car.

Excitement erupting like a geyser.

Talking so fast, words banged into each other.

We’re making a surprise for Mama, she blurted.

Explaining the word surprise to me, she doesn’t know about it.

We just shopped for bagels, ingredients for Russian pancakes.

I listened, then exclaimed, Wow! Whose idea is it?

She answered it was her older sister’s.

Not in the least bothered by the origin of the scheme.

Glad to be a co-conspirator.

Pointing at her two-year-old sister.

Noshing on a bagel in her car seat.

So, I continued, I guess you’re all away so Mama can sleep in.

Yes, Eliana smiled a Cheshire grin.

Then, eagerly, we’re about home. We have to go. Happy Mother’s Day, Yaya!

I clicked off the Facetime,

full to brimming with pride.

My son preserved a tradition,

his father, his guide.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 14, 2024

 

Adult Children, Aging, All Poems, Change, Emotions, Family, Memories, Stories

Antique Shirt

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This shirt is an antique, said Bob.

Remembering when our daughter wore it to theater camp.

At fourteen or fifteen.

A shirt she was not attached to.

Becoming a hand-me-up to her mother.

Always in need of tees.

For exercising, biking, walking.

Over thirty-five years later, still in good shape.

Despite countless washings.

Its pink lettering bright.

Announcing the name of the camp: Stagedoor.

A place for our then teenage child to learn theater arts.

Perform in plays, musicals.

Sing, dance, recite.

Don makeup, costumes.

It surprises me she discarded the shirt.

Repository of so many memories.

While I tend to hold on

to cloth that’s useful, whole.

Souvenir from joyous times

when I, too, played a role.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 22, 2024

 

 

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Grandchildren, Natural Beauty, Pleasure, Santa Monica 3/24, Stories, Trips and Places, Wisdom

One Last Hike in California

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It was our last full day in Santa Monica.

Dan proposed a hike at Will Rogers State Park.

So, all of us piled into the Lincoln Aviator.

Set out for the trail.

Samantha carrying Arthur on her back.

Dan, Solly.

Only Ezra, five, and the grandparents ascended unencumbered.

Able to savor wild purple flowers.

Yellow daisies, white Catalina lilacs.

Views of Los Angeles, the beach, the Pacific.

Catalina Island, hazy, in the distance.

We made it to the top.

Where exhausted parents rested.

Children snacked.

Grandparents marveled at scenes below.

And the family all around them.

Endurance, capability, strength.

Joie de vivre.

But we had to leave.

To get home in time for Ezra’s math lesson.

Briskly, we descended.

Passing stables, children learning to ride.

A barn full of early twentieth century farm equipment.

To the house of Will Rogers.

Built on land bought in 1922.

And a small museum in homage to his legacy.

We only had ten minutes.

To fill our heads with a lifetime of accomplishments.

Philosopher cowboy, stage and movie star, radio personality.

Newspaper columnist, world traveler, humorist.

Descendent of Cherokees.

Whose family predated the pilgrims.

Celebrity to our grandparents.

Will Rogers was a citizen

who honored what is right.

Who cared for human dignity,

could inspire and shine light.

The hike in Pacific Palisades

animated each one’s pace.

Who knew we’d run into Will Rogers

in this wondrous meeting place?

Lynn Benjamin

March 31, 2024

 

 

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Grandchildren, Parent Love, Shabbat, Wisdom, Worry

The Time Had Come

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The time had come.

To catch the ferry back to Long Beach.

Return to Santa Monica.

Spend a weekend with the grand boys.

Our son reminding us he was going to light candles.

For it was Friday night, Shabbat.

Last Friday, in the whirlwind, we didn’t do it.

So, just before dinner, the candles appeared.

Arthur has been afraid of fire.

But, he conquered his anxiety.

Wanted now to be the first to kindle.

Before Ezra, the second.

With the help of a utility lighter, and mother’s steady hand.

Bob began to sing the accompanying prayer.

Arthur protested, covering his ears, No singing.

Bob stopped, but not understanding, started again.

Arthur screamed, No! No singing!

Our son intervening, saying, Arthur can’t stand the sound.

Was it that the blessing was in Hebrew?

A language he didn’t understand?

We just don’t know.

It surprised us, the child

who loves to croon, to sing,

would object to joyful melody.

To Shabbat welcoming.              

But, three-year-olds are fickle.

They change minds so fast.

Every step is progress,

as each fear surpassed.

Bravo to the parents

who reintroduce, who try

making the strange familiar,

while honoring a child’s cry.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 30, 2024

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Grandchildren, Humor, St. Patrick's Day, Stories

Numbers Guy

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Ezra, five, is a numbers guy.

If you tell him your age, he calculates your birth year.

Easily, gladly, with enthusiasm.

But, he also likes to know the origin of things.

On the way to school, he poses questions.

Asks how numbers began.

His father, economist and statistician, thought for a few minutes.

Then suggested that ancient people must have counted fingers, toes.

Right there, his dad asserted, twenty.

Ezra persisted, how about bigger numbers?

Well, what else could be counted? his father questioned.

Turning it into a game.

Ezra then enumerated.

Eyes, ears, nostrils.

Legs, arms.

Teeth, hairs, eyelashes.

Adding body parts till arriving at school.

Where he proudly carried in his box.

What kind of box?

A leprechaun catcher.

For it’s almost St. Patty’s Day.

The boy who loves numbers and counts,

also traps elfish fairies

to find treasure, compute amounts.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 19, 2024

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Holidays, Passover, Seasons, Sounds, Spirituality

March Winds

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March winds are insistent.

Pushing us to Manhattan.

Where they blow off hats.

Whip up debris on streets.

Overturn receptacles, split open trash bags.

Rattle aluminum cans against fences.

Blow plastic bottles, typed papers.

Tossed out by students for mistakes.

Agitate remains of last autumn’s fallen leaves.

As well as naked branches of trees.

Whose young buds hold tight.

Bat about just opened daffodils, crocuses.

New petals squeezing stems.

Like children pressing mothers’ hands.

Pigeons flap down to fight over strewn cereal.

The world outside is noisy.

Sirens, horns, screeching brakes.

Counterpoints to wind.

So entrance to JTS confers relief.

Shedding coats, scarves, backpacks.

Finding the chapel.

Protector of silence.

Where our daughter would sing.

Hymns for Pesach.

A holiday soon upon us.

Where, in anticipation, she chants.

Alone and with choir.

Praising God for goodness.

Beseeching dew for plantings.

After rain ceased.

In this Nusach recital,

her voice, a gentle breeze,

lifting toward divine ears

on sacred melodies.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 14, 2024

 

JTS is the Jewish Theological Seminary at Columbia University, New York.

Nusach refers to the text of a prayer service.