JNF Reception

As a youngster, my mother would give me dimes to put in the metallic boxes colored in Israel Blue for each session of Hebrew school.  We had one of those boxes with the slot on top at home, though rarely filled it.  I have one in my adult home now, mostly filled waiting to pry off its lid, emptying and counting the coins long overdue.  For special occasions, we would plant trees in Israel, or really pay a dollar into a fund that would hire somebody to serve as our forest agent.  When I made my only visit, a full country Israeli tour in 1999, I learned that despite all this American effort, the buildings were constructed of masonry.  They had no appreciable amount of lumber.  Yet much of Israel looked like places I once lived or visited in America.  The vision to accomplish this came from the Jewish National Fund.  My dimes and dollar bills, very large contributions from some of our most well-off Jews.  It may be one of our best confirmations that Israel is part of Judaism.  We are willing to contribute part of our earnings and savings to make the land sparkle for those who live there, even when we live abroad.  That timeline includes enabling distressed Jews seeking something better than Russia or displaced by Naziism, warfare on the land itself, times of political optimism, and our times dominated by technical innovations.

My community. a small but cohesive American one, shares this effort.  Each year the regional Jewish National Fund office, one stationed in a major Jewish population center a less than two hours drive south, seeks from us a blend of financial support and ideas, by sponsoring an annual event.  We have among us Israelis now living and working in our location.  Children and siblings of very accomplished people have made their homes in Israel.  Most live as they did in America, a few achieving significant public prominence.  For the past three years, I have attended this gathering and later added to the financial collection in a meaningful way.  These assemblies display some combination of the most endearing and most cynical elements of Jewish organizations with a fundraising purpose, though no dispute of the noble cause and the sincerity of the major participants.

This year, the format changed.  It had been a tradition to gather for breakfast on a workday morning at my town's snootiest site.  They made a rare concession to the JNF, allowing a Kosher caterer of the organization's choosing to pre-empt the hotel's otherwise mandatory own kitchen requirement.  People in suits took the morning off from their law offices.  My synagogue had ample representation, mostly of older observant people.  We helped ourselves to coffee at a buffet table, then took seats at round tables.  I made a point of sitting with people I had not known previously, but mostly people sorted themselves out by synagogue or Federation positions.  The table had bagels, much better ones than are sold locally, mounds of plain and herbed cream cheese, insulated ivory coffee carafes for refills, a pastry plate, fruit, and another of lox.  People passed these around.  No public motzi or birchat, despite about half the town's rabbis sitting among the guests.  We ate.  My new acquaitences shared experiences, often commments about this and other Jewish organizations.  Then keynote speakers, typically three.  A community leader serving as our chapter's president would review the projects.  Quite a lot of thought went into creating new towns in parts of Israel less populated than the cities that tourists visit.  Then a financial expert to tell us the many ways we can give that will minimize the very large sums that their most valued donors will owe the IRS just a few weeks after this breakfast meeting, then an invited guest.  In my few times, typically a journalist telling us what she probably tells her therapist.  The others are cruel to me, they have to change.  I found the morning pleasant, the parking in town, now requiring paying by credit card at a kiosk an annoyance, and the organization worthy.

An email from the organizer announced a new format.  New place, new time.  It would take place on a Monday evening at a suburban location of Jewish recognition.  A spacious facility, one with appropriate security for an era when those hostile to Israel menace Jews and affiliated institutions.  Parking free on an ample lot.  Close to the town's Jewish population cluster. Dessert would replace breakfast.  The invited outside speaker had a higher profile.  Young man, part entertainer, part filmmaker, part cyberspace influencer.  I asked the event chairman why they abandoned their longstanding fundraising arrangements.  He indicated that collections had been gradually declining.  The purpose of the event was to attract donors.  To me, it seemed like the breakfast tables sat highly paid men, either in their earning prime or aspiring to it.  Expenses were high, and people they might have liked to attract had reservations about driving into the city.  Only then did I remember the male-dominated attendance.  Perhaps something easier to attend that does not require an absence from work would generate more donors and at less overhead for the JNF.

RSVP sent, reminder of event received by email a few days before.  I could come at 7:30PM.  Those who donated $1800 had a special reception an hour earlier.  Incentives for large donors are common but their perks seemed difficult to predict.  Maybe supper with the invited guest.  I arrived at the hour reserved for the less generous.  No traffic getting there.  Abundant parking.  Not a lot of really fancy cars in the lot.  As I walked past the guards into the building, there did not seem a lot of people already there for the VIP session.  The JNF staff checked my name against their reservation list, handed me an ID tag that I attached to my shirt pocket with a magnet, then shook hands with mostly people that I knew.  We milled in the corridor until the auditorium door opened.  

This place, where my congregation assembled for Holy Days a few months earlier, has a mid-sized auditorium.  It was set up as auditorium seating, rows of chairs allowing everyone to watch a podium, stage and high-end screen.  Chairs facing the stage filled about 2/3 of the space.  The first two rows had Reserved Tags, though I did not identify enough VIPs to fill all of them.  Much fewer people who I had never met before.  My synagogue punched above its weight in attendance.  We are a congregation solidly tied to traditional Judaism and to Israel.  On the Kol Nidre Bond Appeal we make more pledges than the other places despite our smaller membership.  We are also mostly people on Medicare.  Only the speakers, two volunteers and the keynote, wore office attire.  On signal, we took our places.  I selected a seat near the middle.

The local volunteers spoke first.  Same two as each of the last two years.  Impressive discussion of projects in the Negev to make those emerging communities attractive to current Israeli's priced out of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.  Housing gets priority.  Employment opportunities a secondary priority.  Then the financial man spoke, more low key than I remember from previous events.  Then the keynote.  I found his performance a refreshing change from the beleaguered journalists.  Entertaining, witty, maybe at the upper reaches of my tolerance for slick.  Questions at the end.  Few takers, none provacative.

His speech reinforced what had kept me attracted to the JNF for most of my lifetime.  It also supported how I approach the rise in American antagonism to Israel as a nation-state of the Jewish people and myself as one of the country's admirers, loyal despite the imperfections of its governance.  As the viral video displayed, "I am that Jew."   It was with great curiosity that I reviewed the results of the American Jewish Committee's poll on how this recent rise in travail has impacted us.  They randomly selected me to take that survey.  I have negligible personal adverse encounters.  Yet a sizable minority have, all with different responses.  My only concession has been to leave my tallis bag insignia side down on the back seat of my car.  Since my insurer would have to pay for vandalism, I should not invite it.  But I study my assigned Torah portions in public spaces with a kippah and photocopied Hebrew print.  Only two people have commented, neither confrontational.  The speaker had been assaulted by another skier on a high end ski trail.  He filed assault charges.  American law exists to protect him and me.  We have to call assault and intimidation what they are.  Perhaps getting mugged would change my response, but my Jewish identity requires responsibility for upgrading other Jewish lives.  That's what the JNF does.  I will take my chances with American hoodlums.

After the speeches, everyone assembled for the dessert buffet.  The baked goods did not have dairy or pareve labels, but I had eaten milchig for supper. Some chocolate layer cake, a slice of dragon fruit that I'd not had before, a plastic cup of sprite.  Nobody approached me to chat.  Instead, I headed over first to the regional representative to ask him about resettlement of Israelis into the new Negev towns.  Then I waited my turn to ask a question of the keynote speaker.  He seemed more thoughtful than slick up close.  We agreed on some things, differed on how to best confront or at least cope with the antisemitism that the younger folks encounter.  He noted independently of me that the audience he addressed included mostly seniors like myself, people already committed to our Jewish identities.  A subset of people, mostly prosperous, debt-free, late-life donors.  We are people who have built families, built careers, understand that somebody else built the schools we attended, the houses we purchased, and businesses that employed us.  The younger people not there may not have the same concept of building environments and institutions.  It would have been a better evening with a broader array of ages in attendance.

What did I miss most?  Probably the tables.  An auditorium layout matches common purpose, but so does a sports arena where everyone roots for the same team without knowing each other or anyone new.  The breakfast tables of previous years promoted conversation, whether with old friends or unfamiliar people.  The purpose of the session was to maximize donations to a worthy cause.  The most enduring outcome might be strengthening personal attachments or sharing thoughts.  Groups of eight facing each other accomplish this much better than a collection of a hundred all peering a stage in unison.

After my chat with the honored guest, I put my paper plate and polystyrene cup into the wastebasket, then headed out.  Nobody new in either the lobby or parking lot for me to greet.

Navigating Target

My lab work suggested a Vitamin D supplement might offer benefit.  I could purchase a bottle many places.  On a Sunday afternoon, the Target OTC pharmacy would likely have a few choices at a competitive price.  I drove over, found a favorable parking space that allowed me to exit driving forward, then headed inside.  I buy very little there.  A gift card earned a few years ago sits in my wallet unredeemed, waiting for just the right splurge.  They have the best price on generic omeprazole, which spurs me to a new outing there every six weeks.  I walk to the pharmacy section, rarely looking at anything else.  I take my three bottles of 14 pills each to self-checkout, tap my Visa card after scanning, take my receipt, then return to my car.

The Target stores have fared poorly in recent years.  At one time, not that long ago, my Sunday mornings began there.  The local Sunday paper would have retail advertising.  I read Target's first.  Then I drove the five minutes, looked at the ads again, posted to their bulletin board at either entrance.  Mostly I did not particularly want anything.  Occasionally, a small appliance or an anti-gravity chair to place on my backyard deck caught my attention.  Before retiring, I would look at men's wear, though rarely bought anything.  When the newspaper ads ended, so did my curiosity about what I  might find.

The treasure hunts ended, though they continued at TJ Maxx, Marshall's, and even the dollar store. My need to have some Sunday morning or weekday afternoon to myself continued.  Shopping became more purposeful.  It still included Target for a while.  Replace big screen TV, cell phone service, new flash drive, an iron, a Kitchen-Aid chopper, a thermal mug.  As I looked over their offerings, much of the options seemed a poor value or limited selection. For big purchases, the attendants were kids reciting scripts.  None ever asked me a question to guide what migh best suit my situation.  I needed ammonia to clean something.  They had bottles of cleaning mixtures made by alumni of college chemistry labs, but for a pure substance, an economical and useful one, I would have to drive around the corner to Lowe's. Other stores nearby took its place as where I find appliances, coats, munchies, and grooming items.  Browsing the aisles largely ended.

This Sunday afternoon, I entered with a specific purchase to complete.  They had several brands of Vitamin D.  Different sizes, different dosages.  Chewable gummies but mostly gel caps.  None stood out as less per pill or per Vitamin D Unit.  I took a bottle off the shelf.  Not wanting to go home, I walked around. Though the parking lot had a lot of cars, the store did not have much density of shoppers, nor did employees seem abundant.  They keep the pharmacy near the front to the left of the main entrance.  Walking to the rear brings customers past food.  Maybe some coffee could be purchased for Pesach.  I saw Dunkin pods on a display, no canned coffee in a place easily found.  At the very back stood seasonal.  Easter to the left, gardening to the right.  I buy seeds in the spring.  Limited to Burpee, not displayed in the most attractive way and not discounted.  Maybe clothing.  A few of each basic item displayed.  Shirts come in SML, not neck/sleeve.  Probably few people who need ties for work would get them there.  Limited selection.  This store sits almost adjacent to a local high school.  They sold logo t-shirts of two other high schools that would need a car to reach, no stuff in the colors or emblems of the school nearby.

Home decor displays would need more steps than I wanted to take.  The direct path to the self register took me through women's jewelry and cosmentics.  I guess some young people would put some of that on their skin or find a necklace with a medallion something that they could adopt as their signature.  The route took me past the cashier registers, mostly closed.  The door nearest my car stood at the self-checkout.  That had a short waiting line.  My turn came.  I scanned my bottle of Vitamin D.  It did not scan.  Instead it reset to a home screen.  Then I picked up the wand and scanned it that way.  $12.49.  Tapped my card, took my receipt and headed back to my car.

That bottle has 180 gel caps, enough for six months.  Omeprazole lasts six weeks, but if I want to go there less I can buy two.

Nobody there treated me poorly.  I found what I came for easily.  What I failed to find was anything that might attract me as an impulse.  I could not do easy browsing.  I'd wonder a bit about the manager who does not have the saichel to order and display apparel from their neighbor school but hangs items from two further high schools.  

My cell phone news feed often has items of hot shot new Target CEO with a vision.  Right now it's a place I go to get two cheap OTC meds.  It's not yet a place I drive to because I want to see what Target has that I did not already know I needed.  He will need a lot of mystery shoppers willing to convey the truth before a better experience brings large numbers of browsers back.

Pesach Anticipation

Megillah reading completed. Onward to Pesach.

This has been my central holiday, the season where my personal Judaism tops out.  Preparation, often with more than slight inconvenience or disruption, gets rewarded with a sense of having achieved something difficult.  Planning takes weeks.  Cleaning, Seder menus, shopping, who to invite.  Usually I am offered a portion of the synagogue ritual, typically one of the Torah readings.  Some physical work appears.  Bringing bags of groceries from the trunk into the house.  Hauling heavy boxes of dishes from the basement.  Washing everything.  Even kitchen time, something that energizes me, can challenge my stamina as I peel, grate, mix, and wash as I go.  Coffee cone and scoop gets opened first to allow me these respites.  

The nature of the holiday seems to be run up to Seder, where the peak occurs, then a gradual decline.  My Festival has a secondary peak, the intermediate Shabbos where I typically invite a guest or two for Friday night dinner, then have a Second Act performing in my kitchen.  Not to be this year, as the Sederim take place on Wednesday and Thursday evenings.  Shabbos begins the week's descent instead of a second but lesser peak.

My principal supermarket stocked its Pesach display before Purim.  All sorts of delactables, though I tend not to seek out the frivolous.  Instead I look for staples.  Matzoh.  Eggs.  Meats for main courses.  Chicken parts for soup.  Fresh produce gets purchased within a few days of seder.  Matzoh meal has versatility through the year and lower price when purchased Passover season.  I get enough to tide me through the year.  Cannot have Passover without macaroons, something I cannot realistically make myself.  Cannisters have given way to pouches, though I used those cannisters to store extra soup.  Some things priced themselves out.  Jarred gefilte fish has given way to frozen loaves, though even these now need a discount coupon to justify purchase.  Making my own from fresh carp with store grinding and harvesting of fish trimmings has passed from realistic.  I no longer buy jarred horseradish.  I can grind some from our maror, splash with vinegar, and enhance the gefilte fish slices that way.  I buy nuts, walnuts and almonds.  They become Charoset and nut cakes.

While the signature meals have a fleishig centerpiece, morning meals require dairy.  Certified butter.  There is a loophole that milk purchased before the holiday does not require certification.  As a result, many dairies no longer print certification labels on their plastic bottles.  Just have to buy enough before the holiday.  Cheese slices become a staple of breakfast, an expensive one.  Cream cheese exists but is hard to spread on matzoh.  A couple jars of jam, created from a fruit I would usually not buy, enhanced holiday mornings.  And eggs have versatility.  Figure about three dozen.

Maybe Pesach focuses too much on food, secondarily on purity.  I find the preparation more stimulating than the eating.  It can also be about people.  I reserve the Second Day for a congregation not my own.  The people there once provided an immense kindness to a Jew at the communal margins.  I learned a few weeks later that college students in attendance, people with futures on the rise, did their very best to bring this woman into the main loop for the evening.  There are other Festivals that focus more on Judaism's imperative to treat people in a sensitive way.  A lot of people rose to the opportunity for this woman.  The least I can do is show my appreciation by making a sparsely attended minyan more secure one of the Festival days.  To get one of my honored guests to my Seder also entails transport, two forty-five minute round trips.  This guest also has limited social capital.  We could arrange and pay for an Uber, I suppose, but reaching out to people has its inclusion early in the Haggadah.

Pesach has perhaps the unfortunate calendar coincidence with Palm Sunday or Easter.  It's also the change of seasons, when winter clothing goes to storage and summer wear gets unpacked.  We do not do special clothing shopping, though others do.  Looking your finest seems a bit goyish.  Seder is casual for us, though through American history it has not always been.  No ties.  My apron with the logo of the Iggles still in place as I serve dinner and conduct the ritual. We expect stuff to be spilled onto our clothing.  Synagogue attire without the finery of the Holy Days.  People attend to worship, not to be seen or to meet folks they've not met in a year.  

Anticipation firmly established.  Preparation in small aliquots, to be expanded as the calendar moves along.  Chores still in a mental framework.  Mind set on food.  My annual chance to have a special week.

Coping with Rejection

Arthur Brooks, the Prof of Happiness studies at Harvard, told an audience that people seek on of four centers:

1. Money
2. Power
3. Pleasure
4. Fame

We seem to share a focus on being recognized for the good work that we do.  He has achieved fame through his efforts over an adult lifetime. When I add to my body of work it gets few views.  When I submit something worthy of print where many will read, a rejection note or no notification at all indicates I've been turned down.

All performers, artists, writers, and quite a lot of university applicants accumulate denials, often in very high volume.  It only takes a few successes, though, to offset the many rejections. No matter how expected, getting turned down has an intrinsic sting.  Despite this, the rational analyst in me finds an upside.  If I never got turned down, would I ever learn where my peak achievement could be?  Unlikely.  

Lot's of successful people have failures.  The 0.330 hitter may be an all-star but he only gets a hit one third of the time.  Superbowl quarterbacks complete about half their passes.  Most can expect a sack or two per game.  Actors go to unfruitful auditions.  I see paintings for sale in various places that I visit.  Most will remain in their place the next time I visit.

 

It's easy to get spoiled.  Every day I read a few publications that have bypassed my work.  Each has other work in print.  Somebody gets selected.  Mostly somebody else.

On reviewing how to get a better outcome, often guided by professionals, their score does not seem all that high.  What they do that I don't is take more shots on goal.  When my work gets rejected, I put it aside in favor of a different article to a different destination.  Maybe it would be better to have a collection of my five best submitted to different places at the same time.

My deterrent though, seems to be my own ego.  Somebody else's opinion of my output becomes my default opinion.  It shouldn't.  The rational analyst needs to overcome the more fragile seeker of approval.

Obscurity

While returning home from a medical procedure, still not quite at baseline following IV sedation, as my wife drove along the highway I scrolled my cellphone.  To my credit, I've largely given up doing this.  When traveling this route, I am invariably the one behind the steering wheel, usually driving alone.  I decided to update an old friend, truly a mentor who shaped me professionally and to a lesser extent personally.  I typed his name in Google search.  First link, his obituary.  Apparently, he had died about eight months earlier.  I opened the entry, one of legacy.com.  Just his name, the funeral home, and about five subsequent tributes.  A link to the funeral home gave no additional information.  Florida would provide me a copy of the death certificate on request, but those accessible to the public only indicate date of death.  Information on cause or address or survivors requires documentation of kinship.

I read the five tributes.  They ranged from high school friends, early career medical colleagues, and more recent professional colleagues.  All had a similar theme.  Walter was a unique person, had towering medical skills, and helped a friend when he could.  I became one of those friends.

We met when I started internship.  Walter directed the Internal Medicine Residency Program.  He had a commanding presence, weight likely exceeding 300 pounds but mobile, booming voice, no hesitation whatever to belittle us or put us on the spot.  He showed no hesitancy, though, to make accommodation to me by altering the residents' vacation schedule to allow me two weeks honeymoon time in August while saving the third week for the spring.  Residency's three years passed quickly.  I transitioned from a timid newcomer with limited knowledge but reliable work ethic to a more dominant senior resident, highly regarded in the job market for new graduates.  He never took credit, nor did he help me find the position that I got.  But his guidance on how to secure a position and assess the offers that I got made a permanent imprint.  Even more so when his values clashed with my own.

Settled a plane ride or long drive away, we kept in touch, mostly by phone, though in person with his wife at his home on a long weekend back in Boston.  I could always value his advice.  When my job reached a dead end, he made the best sounding board.  Absolutely would write a recommendation.  Our children arrived at about the same year, my daughter first, followed by his first son.  We exchanged gifts.  Letter writing still existed in the 1980s, though he preferred phone calls.  Periodic updates on the travails of parenting and the insecurities of physician employment.  He had been involuntarily terminated from the hospital where he supervised the residency.  Boston has a lot of medical opportunities.  He found a safe landing at the university system where he had attended school and done part of his residency.  While his medical skills focused on pulmonary disorders and intensive care, his new position offered different opportunities.  He never abandoned his place in the ICU, but he saw a trend emerging where hospital systems had to negotiate payment contracts with insurers.  He became the expert for his health system for doing that.  It paid considerably more than billing patients for ICU time.  He also sought the financially lucrative in another way.  As I search his name on Google, after the brief obit, the search  identifies him as a medical hired gun.  He reviewed charts and testified for plaintiffs in law suits.  I knew about some of this, as he presented his first assignment during on of my residency Morning Report sessions.  From every conversation, whenever money or medical economics arose, it became clear that his compensation, from salary to speaking honoraria, far exceeded mine.

Our kids got to their teen years.  Mine did the college circuit, including a tour of Boston's options.  It would be our last personal meeting.  We met at a supermarket parking lot, then headed someplace else for lunch.  Walter looked different.  He had slimmed down to normal weight.  I didn't ask if the surgeon had enabled that. Bariatric surgery was a novel option at the time.  For all his wealth, or at least my perception of it, he drove a very ordinary car, one within my budget.  His home in a town halfway between Boston and Providence had appreciated considerably, though it was far from a McMansion.  My daughter had entered college, as had his son, each to top programs.  His younger son lacked the academic discipline.  All his life, my son had heard quips from me about Walter, mostly including remarks about his girth and bluntness.  He seemed much more ordinary in person.

I returned home, updated him on the ultimate college choice and my daughter's activities after graduation.  His older son had entered a business career.  We spoke a few more times by phone.  He had purchased a second home in a tony area of South Florida.  I remembered that my friend had been born in pre-Castro Cuba.  He left for NYC as a child but with the ability to speak native Spanish and Brooklyn accented English.  On our last conversation, or the last I remember, he told me about his Florida home.  At least one member of the Dolphins lived in his neighborhood.  When I ultimately visited Florida, I checked out the town.  A place of McMansions.  I never learned Walter's exact address.

Despite my efforts to keep in touch, the Boston contacts disappeared.  The marvels of Google Searches could not recapture a phone, address for a letter, or an email.  Nor did I find any references to his employment or practice in Florida.  Doctors usually have a searchable office address and phone number.  He must have retired.  My last exchange with him, from my own email records seems to have been about ten years earlier.  I knew his son had gone to Stanford for his MBA.  He knew my children had entered medical school.  But exchanges stopped.  As did my quips to my children about Walter.

I don't know why I chose to look him up on my car ride home.  His passing did not surprise me, though I knew nothing about his health other than morbid obesity the first half of that life.  He lived to his latter 70s.  What surprised me, though, was the low profile.  I might have expected a long obit in a Florida paper if not a Boston one.  Maybe a legacy.com summary containing more than a funeral home contact.  The other Google search info took me to a variety of look up anyone sites.  I found a series of relatives, most of whom I recognized.  The surprise came in the addresses.  That swank town in Florida was not his most recent.  His last address had him in a more ordinary place, one where my father lived his final years.  With much to celebrate in his adult life, if not his childhood, I found only five tributes. Not even a photo on an imaging search.  All five memories not much different than mine of my mentor turned friend.

They Hauled It Away

My once beloved naugahyde recliner has begun its final destination to a landfill.  I do not know how long I've had it.  It's metal tag stated Barcalounger, made in North Carolina.  They are still made but no authorized dealers near me.  A search of the internet indicates that the company folded or sold off in 2011.  I had purchased this chair in the early 1980s, either right before or after birth of my children.  They selectively gouged pieces of the cushion, dislodged and lost a support cross-piece from the leg lift, but bear no responsibility for its final demise.  When I created My Space upon retirement, I transported this special chair to the room's center.  Its recliner mechanism no longer allowed it to return to a rocking chair position.  For cosmetics, I purchased a generic navy velour recliner cover.  Every night I would retire to that chair, turn on the big screen TV and end most evenings leaning back, calves up, eyes on the screen.  Over a short time, the support mechanism of the seat began to give way, sounding a quick pop each time I entered the chair.  Time for a replacement.

Furniture stores still exist, though the ones with the Jewish names and salesmen, local pillars with memorial plaques in the area's synagogues, have largely disappeared from my area.  Some regional chains have taken over.  Department stores with furniture sections are fewer.  Now we have Amazon and Wayfair, places that give immense selection.  I shopped at the regional ones first.  They deliver and assemble.  They do not cart away the old chair, a service that would have given them an advantage over etailers.  Some online providers arrange assembly for a fee, others leave that to the customer.  My experience with their assemblers has not always gone well.  Still, I could not begin until the Barcalounger vacated the space.  

Junk hauling has gotten easy to access but expensive.  Quotes of about $140 to remove the broken chair.  A call to my weekly trash hauler gave me a quote of $50, which I authorized in a minute.  Challenge, getting the recliner down a flight of stairs.  While it had bulk, it did not have much weight.  I could drag it along a flat surface, which I did.  Out of the study, into the upper hall near the steps.  A neighbor helped me guide it downstairs, where it sat in the living room until the day before pickup.  Then I dragged it out the door, with some guidance from my wife, followed by a solo drag along the walk and the driveway.  It sat at the edge for two days, tolerating a drizzle.  On my scheduled pickup day, the sanitation truck hauled it to its final resting place.

To fill the big center void in the middle of My Space, I first harvested a bean bag chair from my son's room.  During his childhood in the 1990s, an amorphous seat filled with foam pellets, not real beans, could be had for a tiny sum.  Each child had one.  Rarely used.  When I sat in it and tried to rise, I can understand why they preferred real chairs.  In my bedroom, I keep a leather recliner with ottoman, purchased on amazon.com, assembled by myself, intended for reading, rarely used.  Easy to carry.  Rather narrow.  Fine for reading, though less comfortable than reading in bed, not very suitable for watching a big screen TV.  A replacement recliner has become a high priority, as I sat in my dear Barcalounger multiple times a day, despite its structural faults.

In the weeks that followed my decision to replace the Barcalounger, I had visited most of the regional furniture stores.  Had they assured me that they would remove it, I'd have purchased the new one there.  But left to my own, Amazon and Wayfair provide better seating with more selection at less expense.  Wayfair offers assembly for a surcharge, Amazon I'm on my own to find a handyman.  Presumably Wayfair screens its contractors, though my experience has been mixed.  For the living room sofa, the assembler did fine.  For my desk chair, he used a drill attachment instead of tightening the screws with the Allen wrench provided for assembly.  The screws dislodged.  I replaced them myself, making them permanently tight with the proper tool, that Allen wrench.  However, I knew where those screws went, even after two of them fell out.  That allowed me to just insert them and make them properly secure.  Starting just with the chair components and an assembly manual, probably one without writing to enable assembly in different countries, I probably would not have succeeded.

The etailers allow considerable customization.  Price, under $500.  Rocker mechanism.  No electric inputs.  Microfiber or faux leather.  Neutral color.  No nailhead style.  Favorable user reviews, if available.  I'm looking forward to using their filters to search for a personal match.  Then order, wait a short time, and let the assembler have at it.

My life expectancy is much shorter than the longevity of my late Barcalounger.  That was American-made in North Carolina, came assembled and delivered from a furniture store, probably one with a Jewish name, maybe Levitz z"l though perhaps Van Sciver's z"l.  Mass-produced stuff from Asia has enabled an inflation-adjusted economy, but expectations of durability have evaporated.  The low price makes them almost disposable.  But as I learned, disposing does not come easily.

Staying on Schedule

For most of my 70-something years, I've pursued what interested me.  In school, I had a class schedule and assignments with deadlines.  I attended, turned in my term papers, and took exams.  Work became less scheduled.  I had office patients most days and people who needed hospital attention.  Consultations and admissions came randomly.  Phone calls mostly got squeezed in.  Pharmaceutical and insurance representatives stopped by mostly on their schedules.  I accomplished what needed doing but enjoyed the autonomy of what I would do when.  Retirement carried over that imprint.  No pressure to time most things.  When I enrolled in OLLI, classes met at specified times, and I had to allot transit time there and back.  Synagogue services commenced at announced times but few people arrived at the beginning.  Like most in attendance, I calculated how much time I wanted to be present, knowing that concluding prayers and kiddush occurred at reasonably predictable hours, then adjust my arrival to suit.

Our modern age exacts a price for that flexibility.  Once retired, there are no times that need an alarm clock, let alone acquiescing when tired to meet somebody else's leverage over me.  Social media, emails, cell phones can absorb whatever blocks of time their addictive nature imposes.  No set meal times.  Minimal commutes.  The onset and conclusion of Shabbos each week sets the weekly structure.  

And for a while, I drifted along.  Not feeling particularly well, accomplishing few of the semi-annual goals I write down every December and June, getting too absorbed in FB, then descending into Twitter, I realized that some structure would enhance things.  And a commitment to stopping what I should stop.

Each half year I include physical goals, usually stated as a desired waist circumference and weight which never achieve.  It won't get fulfilled without a system.  Thus, exercise now has a set time and intensity, one that I fully respect.  Stretching also has a time.  Measurements not attained, but I feel better. 

After endless interrupted eveings, I took control of sleep.  Set time to turn off screens, review what I did each day, turn out lights, and get up the next morning.  This has also been regimented.  Dental first, then weekly weight, then downstairs for some sunlight in the form of retrieving the newspaper from the end of the driveway.  Water first, then brew a k-cup in the same mug.  No email until I finish the coffee.  Treadmill if on tap that day right after coffee.  Crossword puzzles in the morning.

My week has creative activity built in.  Make a YouTube video every Monday afternoon.  Make dinner for Shabbos every Friday, with defrosting on Wednesday.  BP taken twice a week and recorded immediately in an Excel log.

Some things do not take well to appointments with myself.  For those, I have a timer. Housework fifteen minutes, reading twenty-five minutes, writing twenty-five minutes.  I learned to avoid zero minutes.

Social media got the heave-ho on Rosh Hashana.  FB gone, or at least my responses gone.  I will share my writing or videos onto my site.  The algorithm will do anything to get me back, going so far as to clutter my email with notices to look at what the people I care most about have posted.  I almost never bite.  Twitter gone.  Reddit selective to responses where I can help somebody else.  Just divesting this has freed up blocks of time I did not realize I had.  Sometimes I use it well, other times not.

This process of small upgrades has taken about two years.  Results display as mixed.  I feel better with sleep and exercise assurance.  My library of videos now exceeds 100, my writing much more than that.  Public recognition for any of this nil.  Expanded friendships perhaps starting to slide from my FB exit.  My Space largely completed, other house projects in different stages of making progress without renewal.

Yet, I benefit from a sense of what to pursue when.  Keeping promises to myself, the essence of this change, has rewarded me unconditionally.