SQUIRREL HILL

Squirrel Hill

Squirrel Hill. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (Pictured above is the infamous "blue slide" from Frick Park.) "Squirrel Hill" always sounded so silly to me. It is hilly. There are loads of trees and squirrels, gray squirrels mostly. I grew up in Squirrel Hill. I read somewhere that the neighborhood was once a farm called “Squirrel Hill”, then I read somewhere else that it was a Native American hunting ground known for an abundance of squirrels. History is never really right, is it? It’s just stories passed down and added to, like that little word game we played in a circle as kids, adding words to change the arc of any story.

What I never read anywhere was that my childhood neighborhood would ever be a part of history. Certainly not stained and haunting history, sad antiquity, that of a mass murder. A massacre. Not only in my neighborhood, but in God’s house. In a temple. A synagogue. A schul. Generations from now, who will tell the story of Squirrel Hill and who will care?

Our family moved there when I was five. My elementary school was right around the corner and across the street from my beloved grandmother, so I was very cool with school. As a teenager, when I went to high school somewhere else, I did have to walk uphill and in the snow, just not precisely 2 miles as the comics today tell it, changing the arc of that story too.

We wore galoshes. Plastic stupid rain covers that looked like Baggies for our boots or shoes. Moms made us do that and we listened to our moms. We got wet. We didn’t ALL win or always get a trophy. We actually played at each other’s houses and we never worried that studying or playing or praying could get us killed. Because until President Kennedy was killed when I was in Miss Siverman's 3rd grade class, I didn't know what "killed" was. Walking home that day, everything felt different.

Our house was the last in a row of houses, next to a very high hill, almost a mountain really, when we moved there. My friends and I climbed up in that mountain where woods and lots of trees and animals were fun and extra exciting to explore. The mice and snakes and dirt, not so much and my mother couldn’t have been happier when a hospital moved that mountain away and built their tall building half into our backyard, so it seemed to me. With a white fence to separate us off, and forever close my access out of my tiny yard with two cherry trees. I hated it. I missed my mountain.

Still, Squirrel Hill pretty much didn’t change other than that. There’s a lingo and a tempo and a certain step around that everyone seems to accept, learn, pass on, expand into.

“Are you going upstreet?” That phrase meant walking Murray Ave., and then up Forbes, even though only a small portion was actually up a hill. Shopping at Little’s shoe store, mandatory. (The only thing one can still do today.) Clothes at Newman’s, a family owned store with wooden floors from one hundred years ago that creaked. Fancy banks (It’s the land of Mellon, don’t forget), a post office with that certain smell and faces of fugitives from anywhere except Squirrel Hill; Mineo’s Pizza (best in the world), bakeries galore, including Waldorf, Rosenbloom’s, Silberberg’s…bakeries every few feet when walking upstreet.

Predominantly a Jewish neighborhood then, delis and bakeries ruled most corners in Squirrel Hill. I was good with that! On my way to school, I'd walk by Rosenbloom’s each morning where the bakers stood by the open back door having a break and a smoke and I’d inhale the baking bread smell for half a block before I’d see the crusty baker men. Besides, Rosenbloom’s sold Gems. Dark chocolate ganache dripped thickly over a dome-shaped moist chocolate cake. Pure magic.

The memories of childhood are magic for many of us. My first horse, Whiskey was his name, at Schenley Park Stables. The stables burned down when I was 12. It was a horrible fire. Today, tennis courts cover the memories. My first scary sled ride with my father down a hill at Frick Park. My first serious kissing, with a boy in a Corvette, at “Lover’s Lane”. (It was all about the car.)

Pinball machines. Food. Friends. Drive-in movies. Sidewalks. Courtesy. Smiles. Sanctuary. We were civilized. We weren’t scared. We were Squirrel Hill. We also weren’t known anywhere else, weren’t popular ... or unpopular, for that matter – just a little unknown neighborhood secluded among parks, part of Pittsburgh, but with a distinct utterly unappreciated, at least by me, flavor.

Perhaps that flavor was Jewish. It’s positively the part that put Squirrel Hill on the permanent map of forever now. Because of the irrational hatred of one angry man for a people, Jewish people, based on their beliefs and faith, friends of mine had to die one day in Squirrel Hill a month ago. People I knew. People everyone knew who grew up in Squirrel Hill. We didn’t want to be famous. And no neighborhood wants to be famous for this. For a hate crime, a mass murder, unexplainable pain the community forever has to adjust to again, just like that day I walked home from 3rd grade in a daze. 

We were friends with the Simons’. My parents knew the Simon parents and they had four kids and we had four kids – and they had an oldest girl and three boys just like we did and you know how things were back in the days of civilized behavior, right? The cherished days before technology and crazy took over and made all of us question the meaning of man. Computers and crazy people have us all under control now. We have to undress, redress, turn around, empty bags, and watch over our shoulders everywhere we are. (And do bring something to wipe your feet off after inspection.)

We did holidays and vacations with the Simon family. We ate at their house, they ate at ours. Bernice Simon was a kind woman, a nurse, who spoke softly and kindly and I liked her just for that alone. Her husband, Sylvan, also a soft soul, which at the time was not so fashionable for a man. He liked to kid around, played with all of us kids and always had a smile, something I still envy.

Shelly (Michelle) Simon was my friend for many years. Oddly, it was with Shelly that I went on my 1^st cruise ever, a Carnival cruise. I got sick and hated it and it would be a couple decades before I found a peculiar calling to actually consider working on cruise ships, albeit never again Carnival, by choice.

Anyway, we all grew and scattered, as families do, and lost touch a long time ago. I moved to Florida, later, Atlanta.

Decades passed, I travel the world ... then the Tree of Life massacre put Squirrel Hill as center of the Universe. I knew I would know someone. I just knew. I was fearful like thousands of others, waiting for the names to be released. Then, waiting for the photos. 

They astonishingly looked exactly the same to me. Bernice and Sylvan Simon. A tad aged, older, wiser, wearier, but not one iota sweeter. Syl still had that same smile, Bernice still glowed; they still touched each other just as I always remembered they had, holding hands, always, always touching warmly in love – that’s what I still saw – sweet as ever. Like it was yesterday.

But today, they’re gone. So are the brothers I knew. The dear sweet brothers everybody at some time or another saw around Squirrel Hill.

Anybody who ever grew up in Squirrel Hill lost somebody they knew or knew somebody who lost somebody else.

To find anything to be grateful for in grace is the hardest part of all. I guess that they went together, Bernice and Syl Simon… it’s all I have to hang on to as far as grace. They always clung to one another and God somehow made it that these beautiful people, parents and grandparents, were able to cling their way on to whatever eternity awaits their souls stolen while in prayer. They would not have made it alone and I thank God they left as they lived, together and touching.

What I never appreciated at all was how lucky I was to have grown up in a place like Squirrel Hill. I only always wanted out. Many of us did. We wanted to be anyplace except Pittsburgh. To see the world. Make a mark. To matter. A few stayed. It’s so different there now. The bakeries and delis gone, dissolved into new demographics, pay to park everywhere, congestion, confusion, modern mayhem.

But I can still walk up Murray and remember. I can turn onto Forbes, I can still savor Mineo’s pizza, walk a few more blocks and after a week had passed last month, I finally felt brave enough to do just that. I walked past the stores and landmarks. Past a few streets and beautiful gardens in front of houses I’d seen since I was a child. I walked to the Tree of Life Memorial that looks like so many memorials we sadly see on TV every day, except this one is in my neighborhood. Now it’s come home. And I’m not okay with that. Not one bit.

I didn’t appreciate the Squirrel Hill I had. And now it’s gone. Everybody knows its name now.

Squirrel Hill.

In loving memory of Bernice and Sylvan Simon

Just Another Lori Story

HONEST GABE

Honest Gabe

Father Gabe. From the moment I heard, I couldn't stop thinking about Father Gabe. I cried. I was scared. I begged. All in prayer form or at least that's what scratching aside the panic and worry would reveal; prayer. Incessant prayer. And isn't that what we are taught to do? My favorite priest and friend, Father Gabe, had suffered a mild stroke.

Then it snowed in Atlanta, as if to seal the surreal. An unacceptable bombardment of bad events. Really snowed and left me comfortably ensconced, but bitterly stuck for a few days. (No jokes allowed; I have photos that show ankle-deep snow.)

Just returning from working on a cruise ship, I had a long list of things to do, important appointments to keep, people to see, and so on, before having to quickly leave Atlanta again. Mass at St. Ann's was top of that list. And as always, a silent prayer that Father Gabe would be the celebrant. We're probably not supposed to waste God's time on such a wish, but I confess to that sin, thankfully not a mortal one.

I just love Father Gabe. We've shared belly-shaking laughs and childhood stories. Annual retreats where he inspires are a must. And cardinals. Red cardinals. Father Gabe loves them because they remind him of his father and now I love them too because they remind me of Father Gabe. I have a stone with a carved cardinal on my veranda and just mounted a red cardinal mailbox as a tribute. They mean angels in some circles and I am all about angels.

Father Gabe has a way about him … he doesn't stand behind a lectern, he doesn't use notes for his homilies, he sometimes doesn't even end up with what he starts to talk about, but decides another word or idea or God-given graciousness is what he needs to express. He is Honest. Real. He loves us. He loves what he does. Father Gabe's grace radiates from the pulpit yet a piece of that grace stays stuck to him and wherever I see him, I see that grace. I am touched by it and that is why I found myself stuck in the snow, incessantly praying for Father Gabe.

Interestingly, all my personal needs and wants went out the window. No appointments now. No visiting friends, no shopping, no pampering. Only praying. Isn't it funny how everything that matters stops mattering in a millisecond when someone we love stops in a millisecond whatever they were doing that was important to them, because, well, because God decides these things and I don't have all the answers. It does seem to slant towards bad things happening to good people and all, but only from this side of the proverbial fence.

Father Gabe has worked more lately. As the congregation grows and priests dwindle, there are more masses, more baptisms, funerals, etc. I could tell he shouldered a lot more responsibility than he wanted to, but bravely soldiered forward in solid determination to carry through the needs of others. Caretakers are the ones that need the most care themselves, but don't take time to look after themselves. Others are too self-involved to recognize that need for replenishment. I could see it when I looked at him, but stroke? No. I didn't see that coming.

I remember my first reconciliation with Father Gabe. Talk about scared! I didn't want to confess anything, afraid it might take hours if I were to be totally truthful, and who does that in confession? Honesty. It's the hallmark of reconciliation. The thing is, what about penance? I don't like those sitting around and twirling things and repeating words over and over and wallowing in the worry of why did I confide this or that or.... That's why religions have such a bad rap and why Catholics are more likely to go to a fish fry than a confessional booth, but just once … I could survive this just once, say I did it, and if it was that horrible, never do it again. (The confession part, not the sin part, just so we're clear here.)

But surprise! Father Gabe did not rap my knuckles with a ruler. (Maybe only nuns do that.) He did not chastise me nor make me feel at all accountable for being the bad person I turned out to be. He did not shake his head in dismay or criticize my crimes. He was warm and kind and benevolent and unburdened my heart, instantly making room for his permanent place as my preferred priest in that spot he had cleared.

He did ask me one question about a particular unresolved relationship that reverberated for awhile mostly because I didn't really have an honest answer.

Father Gabe asked me, “Are you sure you are not confusing love with need?”

Years have passed and I still haven't answered that to my satisfaction. Good questions sometimes do not have good answers.

And when I wrote and published a book about my own tragedy, I felt the common author's guilt about writing so honestly and went to see Father Gabe who reassured me that honesty is all there is when telling a story. Honesty. It's true. That's why it hurts so much. Afraid to go and give a copy of the book to the person whom I wrote it for, Father Gabe reassured me that if that person had any sense he would be awed by what I wrote. (That person did not have any sense, by the way. If he was “awed”, I never knew.)

Anyway, I'm pleased to report incessant praying really does work. At least that is how I will remember my lost days in Atlanta. Father Gabe is recovering and will be back good as new, or maybe better – as if that were even possible – some time in the future. I learned that all the silly things I worry about and all the plans I look forward to can dissipate in a flash and it won't matter in the end. I missed Mass and that's okay, because if I had made it, Father Gabe wouldn't have been there and I would have had that tiny tinge of disappointment and then felt guilt and then had to go to reconciliation and then the whole cycle starts again.

And because it is my nature to forcibly find all the good in everything, even the worst of the worst, there are things I think Father Gabe might like to know....

First, Father Gabe, thanks God it was your left side! Think of what you wouldn't be able to do without that right hand working the way it's supposed to! That, and you'll be able to drive again soon!

You successfully found your way out of excessive Masses for the Advent season and having to remember all the different colors of the season and the reason and all of that. You can rest through and come back in Ordinary time.

As soon as I heard about your stroke, I remember thinking, oh no, he'll have to quit smoking … and though I know you'll miss that indulgence, eventually you'll not miss it and you will feel better and breathe better and be able to reward yourself with an extra special chocolate instead.

I'm so glad you have a sister who loves you and was able to come help you and since she is a nun, I hope she raps your knuckles if you do not do what you are supposed to be doing to get back to us as soon as possible.

The short homily thing is not going to work for me. The good news is that whatever neurons were killed off on your left side brain were replaced by long dormant neurons from your right side brain, which will kick in and give you super-homily abilities, surprising all parishioners and you simultaneously, so buckle up Gabe!

God sometimes brings bad things to keep worse things from happening. It's hard to reconcile. Honestly, it's hard to wrap any logic around anything when worlds stop. But I am thankful, Father Gabe, that you made my world stop, so that I could remember what is truly important. Grace. Honor. Wisdom. Dignity. Four words I live by that you taught me, Father Gabe.

And here's the best thing of all: After all these years, I finally figured out the answer to your question: Am I confusing love with need?

NO. Because sometimes, and only with very certain and very special people in your life, there is both. Love and Need. Simultaneously. Your mild stroke, my incessant praying for you, the blasted snow, none of it nor anything else will ever take away how I feel about you, Father John Gabriel … I love you. And I need you too.

Love. Need. Together.

Honestly.

Just Another Lori Story

The Watcher

The Watcher

There are at least three of us in each of us.

Whatever do I mean? I hear you asking.

This happens to you, too. No, wait.... This happens to us. No, wait again... while I search for the correct words/tense --- okay, here it is: I know this happens to me.

See?

Ram Dass talks about this concept in his writings, as do many other spiritual types and meditation mentors. So did Sigmund Freud. So did the psychology teacher in high school.

ID --- Ego --- Superego

Parent --- Child --- Ego

Doer --- Seer --- Watcher

Etc...

Still confused? Here are thought bubbles above my head explaining:

You're alone at home.

You spot a mess, as you walk by it.

You think to yourself: That mess really needs to be cleaned up....

Then, from another level, completely out of nowhere to now-here, comes a different voice:

Clean it up now. Don't just walk by....

And then, a quick comeback:

I don't want to right now. I'll do it when I want to!

Recognize any of these voices?

Cognitive you? Parent? Resistant child?

You laugh to yourself as you flash-notice your own thoughts and processes.

And then...! Just when the conversation has reached its natural conclusion, a final, rational, more rhetorical and observant other voice (yes, that's 4 voices, if you're still here) notices; simply notices the other three voices and what just transpired.

That! That, my friends is the “watcher”. True you.

However you want to think of it, the point is this: I am not alone. You are not alone. We are not alone.

I'm in there together, with the watcher, and with the God-self kernel of my origin. True Me.

Just Another Lori Story