Category Archives: Musings

just that — musings on the world around me

Oxo: It All Began With an Apple Tart

I always thought that if Mort Walker, creator of the Beetle Bailey cartoon strip, had had an Oxo potato peeler, Private Bailey’s spud duty wouldn’t have been onerous in the least. If you have an Oxo potato peeler, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, where have you been and what are you waiting for?

Samuel Farber, founder of Oxo Utensils, died last week. He revolutionized the cooking world with his kitchen utensils, starting it all with a lowly potato peeler. As the story goes, he and his wife Betsey were vacationing in the South of France. Betsey, whose hands were mildly arthritic, was having trouble using the peeler supplied in their rental home. “I can do better,” thought Sam, then in his mid 60’s. And he did.

I loved my Oxo peeler from the very first potato. Making Chanukah latkes was forever after a breeze; with Oxo in hand I could peel 90 latkes worth of spuds in a manner of minutes. See what I mean about Beetle Bailey? Then came the can opener, light years better than the ubiquitous metal version; an ice cream scoop; the easiest-to-clean-ever garlic press; and most recently a nifty little pastry brush, also a snap to clean. Oxo rocks.

But what I learned from reading Mr. Farber’s obituary, in addition to a familial connection to Farberware, was that Samuel Farber was also the founder of Copco—maker of brightly enameled cookware. Years ago, when we still lived in New York, my husband surprised me one slushy winter evening with a bright red Copco tea kettle. It was the perfect pick-me-up during a long cold stretch of weather. Even after a house guest burnt the bottom in a moment of oops!-forgot-the-kettle-was-boiling, even after I dropped the kettle’s top breaking its wooden knob, I held on to that fire-engine red symbol of my husband’s serendipitous gift, using it as a planter for a few years.

Today I use, you guessed it, an Oxo teakettle. Instead of an earsplitting shrieking whistle, a throaty hum alerts me that it’s time for tea. Another wonderful improvement from a man who not only filled a niche but kitchen drawers by the millions with utensils thoughtfully designed and a pleasure to use.

Debra Darvick: The Gin Game

In New York for a family wedding, we snuck in a visit with our daughter as well, a stolen 48 hours or so woven through the festivities. During a lull, while my husband went down to the pool, Emma and I stayed in the cool of our hotel room and broke out a fresh pack of cards.

While we played rounds of ten-hand Gin, she recalled playing rounds of similar games when she was young: a few quick games of Go Fish! or Steal the Old Man’s Bundle while we waited for the camp bus or carpool, and later Gin marathons after school. Back then we also played a great card game called Set* whose design principles she uses to this day.

Playing cards with Emma, I was reminded of the days when I chauffeured her hither and yon. Both activities share two similarities that lead to a vital third. First: you’re not exactly looking at each other. Second: you’re focused on a goal (getting somewhere vs. building a winning hand). Third and most important: not looking at one another coupled with the distraction of trying to get somewhere leads to great conversations. Over the weekend’s rounds of shuffling and dealing, drawing and laying down ever-changing combos of suits, we talked and talked and talked: fashion and finances, friends and family. Our conversations roamed over topics both laden and light. During the Father’s Day weekend, as we built our runs of reds and blacks, we talked about the qualities I saw in her dad that blinked in metaphorical neon “good father material.” She shared the kinds of qualities that are important to her in a future spouse.

Asking me about what she was like as a child, and how I handled the ups and downs of her stages of growth, I know she was not only asking about my own turn at motherhood, but imagining her future turn as well. Closing in on 26, she can look back and remember herself as a teen, a time when the hands dealt her were often a jumble of mismatched pairs and incomplete runs. She is old enough to envision the kind of future she wants for herself, building a hand composed of career, marriage, family, travel and more. Like any parent, I pray life will deal her a fair hand, and that she draws what is valuable, and quickly lays down that which no longer fits.

* If you research this link, know that we just played the game, oblivious to its mathematic implications!

A Note from Debra Darvick

Would you help me as I re-launch this column? I moved from my old website and began writing in this beautiful new format a few weeks ago, and the online search engines are still catching up. You can help alert more readers to my new home. Click on the blue-”f” Facebook icon, above, and share this column with friends. Better yet: Post a link to http://www.debradarvick.com for your readers. Thank you.
Debra Darvick

Up for more voices? You’ll find dozens in the stories in my book, This Jewish Life, Stories of Discovery, Connection and Joy. Fifty-four voices, each telling their own story, unite to portray a year’s worth of Jewish experiences, celebrations, holidays and more.

Hearing Voices, Past and Present

“It’s about the voice …”
The first founding principle of ReadTheSpirit, 2007

Sometimes at services, voices “touch me as usually only something I haven’t seen coming can touch me or feed me as if from another’s hand with something that I hadn’t realized I was half starving for.”
Frederick Buechner, The Longing for Home

“GUT SHABBOS MAMMELEH,” Mrs. N. greets me in Yiddish each Saturday morning. The literal translation—Good Sabbath, little mother—is but the thinnest veneer over a meaning whose depth is rich with history, love, community.

It’s not just the words. First, there is the accent. Mrs. N.’s native Hebrew is brushed with the non-native accent of her parents, Russian immigrants who came to Israel well before Statehood in 1948. Gut Shabbos, Mammeleh embodies decades of tradition, safety lost, terror and pogroms, lives rebuilt. Mammeleh gets me every time, for it is an endearment of the deepest affection.

Shabbat services are replete with voices—naturally the voices of the congregants around me. But even more, I hear in my mind’s ear the voices of those with whom I have worshipped over the years, cantors who have led me in prayer, my children whose sweet voices return to me each week when we get to certain passages. I find myself praying amidst a chorus composed of people who are no longer alive, children who are now grown, friends with whom I have lost contact, but whose voices are right beside me for a moment or two while reciting certain benedictions.

There is the recitation of several blessings thanking God for clothing the naked, for opening the eyes of the blind, Who gives strength to those who falter, and more. The cadence of these many verses is regular as a heartbeat. Reciting each one I am surrounded by the memory of schoolchildren, mine among them. With the ease of the young, they mastered the words so much faster than did their mom, who came to this more traditional service in adulthood. There is Cantor Stephen Dubov, of blessed memory. The minute I read the words Retzei Adonai Eloheinu… Be gracious, O Lord our God…his voice comes alive, rich and resonant. I see his hands, raised in an expression of longing to feel the Divine presence. That image, and the memory of his voice, carries my spirit higher. His voice was silenced decades too soon. (If you click on the link above, go to track 10 to hear Cantor Dubov’s beautiful interpretation of Retzei.)

Bar and Bat Mitzvah impart additional voices. The verses of the Torah are chanted; each word, each phrase is assigned a specific cantillation, or trope. These tropes have been passed down through the centuries. Melodies chanted by a thirteen-year-old in 2013 are auditory links in an unbroken chain of instruction and learning. One of our congregants teaches students using a cantillation distinctly from the standard one used in this country. The rabbi who taught Jeff was Hungarian, born early in the 20th century. A Holocaust survivor, he learned the trope from a scholar surely born in the late 19th century. When a child chants using Jeff’s melodies, this chain of learning is palpable, its sounds resonate down through generations — teacher to student to student to student. Jeff will forever remain alive in the voices of those whom he taught to chant. Undoubtedly, one of those students will become a tutor and the melodies will then journey forward, having crossed centuries, oceans, historic upheaval, starting over in the goldeneh medinah*.

Every once in a while, at the close of services, there is a melody that catapults me back to childhood. My mother is beside me. I see her hands and her smoothly filed nails as her fingers turn the pages of the prayer book. I am impatient for the service to end already. I cannot comprehend how in the world she finds this interesting, why on earth it gives her comfort. May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to you O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. In mymind’s eye, I see her lips move as she sings softly with the choir. Then I was squirmy and impatient. Now, I sit in stillness, singing along with the memory of her beside me. And I am comforted.

There is a push in some corners away from organized religion. Such advocates say we can find our own paths to spiritual meaning at our own pace, in places of our own choosing. It’s the American way they say, evoking the cowboy on the range. This Marlboro Man analogy ignores the other part of the myth — cowboys gathered around a campfire, seeking out human connection after a day spent solely in equine company. The cowboy analogy also ignores America’s bedrock reality: our country was founded by those who yearned to be free to worship their God as they saw fit. They didn’t want the silence. They, too, wanted the voices.

* Yiddish term for America, meaning the “golden land.”

A personal note: Would you help me as I re-launch this column? I moved from my old website and began writing in this beautiful new format a few weeks ago, and the online search engines are still catching up. You can help alert more readers to my new home. Click on the blue-“f” Facebook icon, above, and share this column with friends. Better yet: Post a link to http://www.debradarvick.com for your readers. Thank you.

When Nature’s the Classroom, Trees are the Teachers

We saw quite a few of these amiable self-hugging trees as we hiked the trails in Sedona a few months back. The first words that sprang to mind when I saw this particular one was a public service bumper sticker from the 1970’s asking, “Have you hugged your kids today?” Sorry state of affairs that folks have to be reminded to hug their children.

The second phrase that came to mind was, “Have you hugged yourself, today?” How often do we stop and acknowledge our own goodness? To take a moment for a self-hug celebrating the completion of a difficult task? Might it help us along to remember to stop and embrace ourselves in the midst of a harried day? Be good to yourself, this juniper reminded me. Hold yourself close in support and celebration.

STEP INTO THESE SEDONA ARIZONA TRAILS WITH ME

Before I go further along these trails, let me invite you to step into these images with me. If you click on any of today’s photos, they get bigger. Click again and a couple of them will get much bigger. But, back to the trail ..

I saw this tree on my only solo walk — a six-mile trek early on a cool morning. Instantly my brain closed the branches into the heart that everyone sees in this photograph. Probably something do with gestalt theory about our brains always seeking to close the circle, fix the “problem” or complete what’s been left incomplete. So with my gestalt brain extending the tree branches to complete the image of the heart, my emotional brain got to thinking about closed hearts and open hearts, about what it means to have a complete heart and if one is in possession of such a wonder, does it mean there is no room left for more goodness?
When my kids come to town I often say, “Ahh, my heart is complete” by which I mean “I need nothing else in this world; this moment is the apex of all apexes.” In yoga there are any number of asanas called “heart-openers,” postures designed to physically model the emotional compassion and openness to others that make for a kinder world. The phrase complete heart says one thing; the words closed heart means something altogether different. I think maybe the lesson this lovely tree imparts is this: only by keeping an open heart, can we experience, again and again, a complete heart.

As in life so in death, I always think when I see these wind-swept trees. Although they are dead, dead, dead, they are gorgeous — branches reaching skyward in jubilation, trunks bent in suppleness; even their exposed roots seem to be tip-toeing off to some arboreal party deep in the forest. In death, it’s as if you can read the story of the tree’s entire life — drought and plenty, storms of destruction, a lopsidedness that belies being overshadowed by greater forces. I can’t help but ponder: what of us when we die? What will those we leave behind see in the forest of their memories of us? I hope-hope-hope to be recalled just like these trees: still dancing in the rain, still reaching upward in hope and determination, bent, yes, and gnarled, yet somehow deeply alive. Have you hugged yourself today?

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How could I not share this tiptoeing tree? Isn’t she a hoot! Kudos to hubby for this wonderful shot.

If you’ve enjoyed these photos and would like to share them, please do; and please credit Debra Darvick (1-3) or Martin Darvick (4) and provide the link to debradarvick.com. Thank you.

Breaking through Writer’s Block: Crayola or the Loo?

Reading in the New York Times Magazine how Burt Bacharach breaks through his writer’s block got me thinking about how I dealt with this affliction some years ago. I was working on a novel at a three-week residency at the Ragdale Foundation and was positively stuck, paralyzed, idea-less. In a word, blocked. Fellow writers, I am sure you know the feeling. Blank page, paralyzed mind, inert fingers loathe to reach for pen or the keyboard. There I was gifted with a glorious block of time and nothing was flowing. Except anxiety.

Every morning I would awaken and it seemed so simple: lift my hands from my lap; move them a measly inch from the desk to my keyboard. But that one-inch distance felt like leaping across mile-high chasm. What was I going to do? Returning home with the same number of pages I arrived with was out of the question. How could I break through the paralysis?

Then I thought of what the yoga teachers always reminded us in class—yoga really begins when you take it off the mat. The postures we practice on the mat are just that—practice for the real world. So I thought, what if I drew a picture of myself leaping across that mile high one inch gap? Would drawing myself in action, conquering that impossible-to-traverse space with paper and colored pencils help me pattern it for the real world? Worth a try.

The next morning before I got out of bed, brushed my teeth or performed any other morning ablutions, I grabbed my colored pencils and drawing pad and set to work. I drew the mile-high cliffs. I divided them by a one-inch gap and placed the to-be-written novel on one side of the cliff. Then I set to work sketching myself leaping across the divide. Michelangelo I wasn’t. It didn’t matter. Somehow, drawing myself achieving on paper what I hadn’t been able to manage in my waking life, worked. Drawing on the non-linear, wordless part of my brain patterned for me what I dearly wanted and needed to do. Bingo! When I was done, I got out of bed, brushed my teeth etc, had breakfast and set to work. The words began to flow like water.

That first drawing, which I ended up titling 1″ Abyss, set the pattern for the rest of my stay. I began each morning still hazy with sleep, not totally conscious, yet drawing whatever part of the novel I wanted to accomplish that day. And although the (completed) novel never made it past a few agents’ initial request for review, I learned a lot in the process: I’d rather write non-fiction than fiction; I wasn’t really interested in doing the work that it would have taken to perfect the novel; it’s OK to let go of a project, even one 400+ pages and two life-years long. But the most important thing I learned was how to trick that old writer’s block into submission. I prefer my way to Burt’s. To each his own. But maybe I should send him a set of colored pencils?

And … the Loo?

From the NY Times Magazine section on How to Break Through a Creative Block by Burt Bachrach: When I’m stuck with musicians in the studio and don’t know what’s wrong, I will break and go into a stall in the men’s room. I will sit on the toilet seat. Nobody talks to me there and I get no advice from any musician. I work it through in my head and four out of four times, I come out a winner. (As told to Spencer Bailey.)

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Irises in the Desert?

The Jim Thompson trail in Sedona, Arizona is a four-mile round trip hike offering up breathtaking views from vantage points of 4800 feet. Oak Creek’s first settler, Jim Thompson, built the road in order to bring produce from his Oak Creek farm to the residents of Sedona. Eventually he made a homestead in Sedona and used the road to connect his two properties. Now a great hike along a formation called Steamboat Rock, it weaves through juniper and other pines, deciduous trees, and plenty of agave, prickly pear and hedgehog cacti.

We took it on during the middle of our stay, once our hiking muscles had acquired a bit more oomph, and our lungs had adjusted to the altitude. About halfway through the walk we rounded a bend and came upon a huge swath of purple bearded irises blooming in a cleft of rock. Irises! Gorgeous and vibrant as if they were just waiting for Van Gogh to set up his easel and start smearing his palette with ropes of violet, cobalt, orange, goldenrod, and green.

Surprisingly there are irises all over town. Of course with water and a fairly hardy plant, you can grow most anything anywhere. We learned that the original pioneer women brought irises with them. What longing they must have felt as they set out, tucking a few precious corms of hope and memory as they began their westward trek.

But how did this particular stand of iris arrive, and manage to thrive, in this seemingly inhospitable site? It’s doubtful that a bird swallowed a random iris corm, passing out the remains in mid-air. Last time I checked, irises had roots but not feet so they couldn’t have arrived under their own power. Perhaps a century plus ago the rivulet of spring rains that sustain the irises today was a steadier flow of water. Maybe Mrs. Thompson dug them into the earth midway between Sedona and Oak Creek, marking the place for respite along the way.

Gardeners often bring along a favorite plant to a new locale, transplanting it along with one’s self. I have come to admire the hardy little cacti that grow in this most challenging terrain. Considering the effort of simply staying alive, their red and fuchsia blossoms, no bigger than a cotton ball, are all the more glorious. Returning home under mechanized horsepower, I’m as far from a farmwife as you can get. Instead of irises, I have planted a little dish garden of cacti (purchased locally, not poached!) To remind me. And to stoke the hope of returning one day.

Welcome! It’s a great day to share stories, ‘This Jewish Life’ … and our new online home

WELCOME to my online home, where I look forward to sharing stories with you.

If you’re just discovering my stories, let me introduce myself: I’m Debra Darvick and you can discover a lot more about my work by clicking on the cover, at right, of my newly released This Jewish Life. That click will take you to my new author interview with ReadTheSpirit Editor David Crumm.

If you’re among my many longtime readers, I hope you will feel at home here, as well. Five years ago, nearly to the day, my wonderful and talented son created a beautiful website that regular readers have enjoyed through 192 posts. Nearly 40,000 visitors have stopped by and many of you kindly left comments.

The scope of my writing is as wide as life itself. Over the years, some writers narrow their focus to a single core subject, whether it’s food, vintage books, shoes or skateboarding Moms. Eclectic as I am, I’ve never been able to narrow my focus. This is a double-edged sword. It makes it harder to fit me into a marketing profile, but leaves me free to express myself and weigh in on whatever I choose. Most importantly, it allows me to welcome readers with broad interests—perhaps like you.

My web redesign and relaunch now offers categories called Maps, Musings, Seasons and Asanas—my way of organizing my stories for you. Maps is for columns relating to travel and adventures both near and far. Musings houses posts about anything and everything from kids to current events to relationships and beyond. Seasons is where I dig in for reflections about gardening and nature. Asana, in yoga parlance, is a specific posture. Shivasana is the resting posture that comes at the end of yoga class. Bakasana is crow; adho mukha savasana is downward dog, and so on. Thus this fourth category, Asanas, is the place to join me on the mat as I assimilate whatever inspiration I have gleaned from my ongoing yoga practice.

And there’s more to this redesign. Over on the right you’ll see More Debra. Stop by for book reviews and posts on the writing life as well as links to sermons I’ve delivered over the past decade. You’ll also see a link to the front page of ReadTheSpirit Magazine. ReadTheSpirit is the brainchild of journalist David Crumm and software developer John Hile. The online magazine brings together spiritual seekers from all traditions, walks of life and experiences. ReadTheSpirit is creating real-world community, energy and understanding between folks who might not otherwise have crossed paths. And last but not least, stop by this section as we introduce His Lens/My Pen, a collaboration between my husband and me (guess who’s the lens and who’s the pen). Finally, I’ll have an ongoing forum to share my meditations on his wonderful photos and in the near future, you’ll be able to enjoy them as greeting cards and posters.

So, a heartfelt thanks to my son for getting me started, to each and every reader who has chosen to spend a bit of reading time with me, leaving a comment or not, and the wonderful team at ReadTheSpirit Books as they officially debut This Jewish Life, this week.