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Photo Credit: Chris Preksta

When I was a kid in Swissvale, I always wanted to move to Squirrel Hill when I grew up.  
Even though fate led me to live in other neighborhoods in and around Pittsburgh, I never
stopped thinking of Squirrel Hill as the city neighborhood where I felt most at home, where I “fit.”

My life is full of beautiful memories of this lovely neighborhood.

The Sunday afternoon drives with my dad and mom and my three sisters and I piled into our
little Dodge Dart to look at beautiful homes in neighborhoods around ours because my dad
was an architect and an appreciator of beautiful homes.

We didn’t eat out a lot, but when my parents wanted to splurge Poli’s was the “good restaurant”
they chose.  Going there was a special event. I remember dressing up to eat there, and that
I had my first Shirley Temple there.

The Manor Theatre and the Squirrel Hill Theatre were the movie theaters closest to us with
the first run movies.  I still go back to the Manor often to see those slightly off-the-beaten-track
movies that don’t make it to the local cineplex.

Squirrel Hill was also home to Heads Together, the coolest little head shop in the city.  They
sold drug paraphernalia, record albums and waterbeds. The little hippie wannabe in me loved
hanging out there, even though I had little need of anything they sold but the albums.  It was
one of the few establishments anywhere at the time that was open all night, and I remember
going there with my co-workers from Winky’s Drive-In Restaurant at midnight on Friday and
Saturday nights after our shifts, still dressed in our uniforms reeking of hamburger grease.

Gullifty’s was one of my all-time favorite restaurants.  I went back there whenever I could
until they sadly closed a few years ago.

When I was in my 40’s I met the love of my life.  He was many things - a chef, a musician,
kind and funny and intelligent.  He was also Jewish.

I didn’t know a lot about Judaism when we started dating.  I met his entire extended family
for the first time when we attended his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah, which was also my very first
Bar Mitzvah.  No matter. His family warmly welcomed me into the fold and became my family.

For many years I attended services with him at Congregation Bet Tikvah which held services
at Rodef Shalom in Oakland, just a few miles from Squirrel HIll.  Through this liberal,
welcoming, warm congregation I learned to appreciate and love Judaism and they became
my spiritual community.

When we heard the horrific breaking news yesterday that an active shooter had entered the

Tree of LIfe Synagogue in Squirrel Hill, and as we watched the unfolding events and learned
that 11 people had died, six more were fighting for their lives, and that it was an anti-Semitic
act, you can believe that it hit close to home.  This was my city, my neighborhood, my spiritual community. It literally could have been us, and may have been people we knew and loved.

The larger truth is that any time a group of people living in our nation is targeted and murdered senselessly, it happens to all of us.  We must fight hate, by living with loving intentions and by casting our votes for leaders who value all life, and do nor perpetuate hatred and violence. But until and unless we elect leaders who are willing to address the common denominator in all these mass murders - the availability of assault weapons and high capacity magazines to the average citizen - the carnage will continue.

And I am Telling You I'm Not Going

I understand that some Facebook users’ data (including mine) may have been accessed
by Cambridge Analytics through quizzes we take and used to attempt to influence us in
the 2016 presidential election.

Facebook is taking a huge amount of heat for this, culminating in Mark Zuckerberg’s two-day
appearance before Congress, who are presuming to pass judgement on something they clearly
do not comprehend. Even I, as old and out-of-touch as I am with advances in modern
technology, understand more about how the internet and social media platforms work than
some of these legislators.

I honestly don’t understand the extent of the outrage leveled at Facebook, given the level of
privacy it allows its users, who pay nothing to use the service.  You essentially need two pieces
of information to open a Facebook account - your name and an e-mail address. You can keep
your profile and accessibility of your information as private as you wish.  You can literally hand-
select who sees any individual post of yours. As for those quizzes, you will get a list of what
information they can access before you can start taking the quiz and you can choose whether
or not to allow them to access your information.

And if Cambridge Analytics did get my name and e-mail somehow, nothing they did worked to
influence me toward their candidate in the election.  In my opinion, there was only one qualified
candidate who ran in the primaries or the general election, and that’s who got my vote.

Lots of companies sell your contact information to other companies who then use that
information to market their products to you. This has been going on for years, long before
social media made its debut.Facebook actually uses your information - your likes, and clicks
and such- to tailor the ads you receive to match your tastes and interests. And you can give
feedback on ads and they will stop sending you ads that you don’t wish to receive.  Do you
understand how wonderful this is as most advertisers stop caring about me as a potential
customer the year I turned 50? I welcome advertisements that pay for a service I use free
of charge, and it is a bonus to get ads for products I might actually use.

While getting unwanted marketing e-mail or snail mail is annoying, what really makes me feel
violated is when real identifying information - like my social security number and home address-
get compromised and accessed by hackers with nefarious intentions.  That’s what happened
with Equifax who automatically had access to every bit of identifying information about me and
just about every major financial transaction I’ve ever made. Unlike Facebook, they didn’t ask
for my permission to have my information. And why do they have it to begin with?  Because the
credit review companies are “necessary” so we can receive credit scores that companies can
use to decide whether or not to grant us credit.

Do you know what Mark Zuckerberg did when they realized what had happened? He admitted
that it had happened, showed real remorse, and took steps to improve the privacy of his site.  
He readily agreed to appear before Congress, and when he did so he was deferential and
respectful to the legislators and the process. This was a refreshing change from the denial of
wrongdoing (even when said wrongdoing is on tape) from some people in power these days,
or the way Equifax just hid the compromise to their site.  

Does anyone see what an all-around win the Facebook model is? We keep in touch, share the
information we choose to share and get advertisements about products we use.  Facebook runs
a profitable business. Advertisers reach their target markets.

So I am telling you I’m not going. I want to stay in touch with family and friends from throughout
my life who live all over the country (and sometimes the world).  I want to see pictures of their
children and grandchildren and pets. I want to share in their lives in a way that only Facebook
makes possible. I am going to stay on Facebook.

A Pittsburgher in Paris: Parlez-vous Francais?

As we prepared for our trip to Paris we heard all kinds of warnings about The French People.

The French have a reputation for being unfriendly and in some cases downright hostile, especially towards tiresome American tourists. Well, we couldn’t promise that we wouldn’t be tiresome tourists, but we certainly didn’t have to dress like tiresome tourists.  After reading up on the acceptable dress of the country, we headed to the airport armed with our dark clothing and colorful scarves, and left our Steeler shirts and flip-flops behind.  

As it turns out, when interaction was necessary the people of Paris were actually very friendly.  When it was not they left you alone. They don’t chat with strangers, share personal details of their lives or ask you questions about your life unless they’re a pickpocket or a tour guide.  I presume everyday Parisians don’t really care about strangers’ lives.  Unlike New Yorkers who walk down the street looking angry, Parisians walk down the street looking bored.   

This is just exactly the way I want people to act!  I don’t care about strangers’ lives either. It made me want to move to Paris, language barriers be damned, or at least send some of the people at the gym there for a field trip so they could learn how not to talk to strangers.

Rumor also had it that the French expect you to attempt to speak French when you are in their country. I know, the nerve of these people, right?  If you give it the old college try, they will then be happy to speak to you in English.

I don’t want to brag, but I studied French in school for 13 consecutive years without ever mastering the language or even figuring out verb tenses, and I had forgotten everything I had learned in the many years since graduation. I brushed up courtesy of Duolingo which was surprisingly no more helpful than those four semesters of college French classes in teaching me the language.

As it turns out, we managed to communicate well enough while we were there.   We mastered some key words and phrases. Bonjour (hello).  Au revoir (good-bye).  S’il vous plait (please).  Merci (thank you).  Ou est la toilette? (where is the bathroom?)  You know, the important stuff. 

Perhaps the most useful question was one posed by Mr. Rip to two policemen in Montmartre after we wandered down the streets from Sacre Coeur after a walking tour trying to find our way back to the Moulin Rouge where the tour began. “Ou sommes nous?”  (“Where are we?”), he asked.

The policemen look puzzled even though it was a simple enough question delivered in flawless French. Finally, they used their crackerjack detective skills to assess the situation and pointed down the street and said, simply, “Moulin Rouge.”  I guess that’s where all the Montmartre walking tours start.

Mr. Rip was more adventurous than I was in using the language.  One night at dinner, he asked the waiter a question in French about one of the menu items.  The waiter responded to his question in fluent French.   We don’t really understand fluent French spoken by a native.  After that, Mr. Rip added the French phrase for “I am going to ask you a question in French but I will not understand your response” to his repertoire.

As it turned out, not only did French people speak to us in English after we said “Bonjour!” in our glaringly American accents, sometimes they just greeted us in English before we had a chance to speak because somehow they knew at first glance we were Americans.  We probably didn’t look bored enough to be French.

On This Day My Child Was Born

It was February 13^th.  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment.

My doctor said he thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28^th due date.  That was okay with me. I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn,” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably.  I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to have my baby.

Snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried.  The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house.  Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I arrived at work safely, just in time for lunch.

When I stood up after lunch, I felt an unfamiliar sensation.  I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break.  I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately.  I wasn’t able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones.  I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.

I let my boss and my friend and co-worker Joan know what was going on and left.  I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start.  I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on.  My car battery was dead.

Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.
  

I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables.  Paul felt strongly that a woman in labor should not be driving herself anywhere, especially in the snow.  He refused to jump my car.  I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and probably wasn’t even technically in labor.  Paul didn’t care.  He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go.  I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it there, dead, especially if I actually had the baby.  Paul was adamant.  We argued for several minutes.  I was getting desperate.  I begged.  I cajoled.  I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!”   Finally, Joan,  a very persuasive person, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but hadn’t heard from my husband.  I called the doctor’s office.  “WHAT??!!!,”  the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?”  The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River.  I thought better than to mention the dead car battery.  She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital.  About 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her.   “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”

I called my mother-in-law to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there.  She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse I didn’t think I should wait. 

My mother also offered to drive me, which was very sweet but not really feasible.  My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA.  It would have taken my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.

It was snowing a lot harder now.  When I finally arrived at the hospital, I told the doctor that aside from my water breaking and driving 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine.  He examined me and informed me that I was indeed having contractions and I was “officially” in labor.  Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop.  He arrived in the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in plenty of time for the birth.

I will not share all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that.  However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small.  I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.

At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early.  When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start.  Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.

That baby turns 33 today, and is the father of a beautiful, happy, active 14-month-old brown-haired, brown-eyed son of his own.  Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday full of celebrations with his family, and better weather than the day he was born.