Jonah Had an Amazing Dream

If you really want insight into what's up in your children's psyche, ask them about their dreams. When we wake up, sometimes at dawn, sometimes at noon, we ask each other "Did you dream last night?" Sometimes we do, and sometimes we don't.

This morning, (really afternoon, but I didn't want you to know what slobs we are), when Jonah woke up, he climbed up in the big bed, and asked me just that. I told him that I had a lot of dreams the night before, (mostly involving my standard garden variety losing my car in a parking garage and having to walk uphill to get home) and he said so did he.

While I tried to remember some more of what went on in my dreams, Jonah told me about his. It was one of the best ones ever and I need to write it down before it disappears, like tears in the rain. (I lifted the 'tears in the rain' from "Blade Runner" so don't be too impressed.)

Anyplagiarized, he said that in the dream, it was years from now, when I was really old, "like in my sixties or something". I laughed when he said that. We were sitting together in the living room, watching TV and came across a movie that was about my life.

"My life?" I asked. "Yes, your life. It was like that Jersey Shore show on MTV"
"Like a reality show?" I asked, feeling horrified. "Exactly" he said.

My immediate response was "Oh shit". Did my Aunt Evie really get me on "The Biggest Loser"? Or, even worse, I finally won Intervention, or, good Lord, "HOARDERS"!!! This was the insight into the true feelings of my children I had been dreading all my life.

Reluctantly, I asked him if it involved an intervention or camera's barging into our house in general, and did it freak him out? Jonah started laughing that good belly laugh he gives me when I crack him up.

"No, it was about your life and all of the things you've been through."

"We were sitting together watching TV and we stumbled across the movie. We didn't know who made it, and were surprised to find it. It started when you were little and went through all the years and the things that happened to you. There was a lot about how you always tried to help people, no matter what. In one part, you got angry at someone because they were doing something that made you not be able to help them.

In the last scene of the movie, I'm in a car driving through the desert looking for you". Let me mention that we had been in Las Vegas last week for the holidays with our family.

"Am I lost?, Were you afraid?" I ask.

"No, I knew exactly where you were and just needed to drive there. There's a girl in the car, and she's annoyed with me for taking so long. We stop at a truck stop and she runs off with a trucker but I don't really care. I'm kinda glad because she was annoying. So I just get back in the car, and drive some more through the desert, looking for you. And then I woke up."

A Rose May Be a Rose, but Schiff is Still Better than Slutsky

My maiden name is Rosenberg and my family, on both sides, are a bunch of radical ass Russian Jews. All of them, all the way back to the beginning of time. So then I married this Catholic guy....oh, I'm sorry, that would be an entirely different post. This post is about my father's family.

Anyway, and I say this with pride, I am just about one generation away from being Euro-trash, both on my mother and father's side.  Before you wonder if I am related to THE Rosenbergs (you know, Ethel and Joseph? those treasonous communists?), let me just tell you straight off that Rosenberg is Jewish for Smith. So, if I am, I don't know it.

Sidney Rosenberg, my paternal grandfather, was born in New York City in 1902. His parents, Rachel and Max Rosenberg, had immigrated to the United States from Russia in 1875. They, like so many of my relatives, came by boat to Ellis Island. From there, his family went to Texas. They left Russia because of political reasons.

Eventually, Sidney moved to Chicago, and met the beautiful Annie Schiff, whom he immediately fell in love with and married. Annie Rosenberg is my paternal grandmother. She was a teacher and Sidney was a lawyer.

Annie's grandfathers name was Schuel Slutsky. He immigrated from Latvia, which was at the time an independent part of Russia. They were called "herring eaters" because the country was a peninsula surrounded by water on three sides.

Schuel Slutsky had immigrated at the age of ten because he was a 'known' radical and he was "in trouble with the authorities" and they were looking for him. By the time he was twelve, he lived in Manhattan and was a rag pedaler.

When my great-great grandfather Slutsky came through Ellis Island, they changed his name to Schiff. When he arrived, he was trying to tell the immigration officials, in broken english, that "he came on the ship". They thought he was saying "my name is Schiff". Apparently, this happened quite often in those days. Good ridence "Slutsky" and hello "Schiff".

My grandma Annie's father was named Isaac Schiff and her mother was named Rose. Rose was an amazing woman, one so after my own heart that I wish I'd known her. Isaac died and left Rose a widow with twelve children. Rose never remarried and scrubbed floors to support my grandma Annie and her eleven brothers and sisters. All twelve attended college.

This is my favorite story about Rose Schiff. Keep in mind that she had left Russia only years before and could barely speak English.

During the Great Depression, the bank was going to foreclose on their house. Rose marched all twelve children, with their little bags packed, down to the bank. She told the bank manager that if he did foreclose, she would have no choice but to leave all twelve children with him because they would be homeless.

She pretended to walk away, while twleve frantic children, who really believed her, cried 'mama mama!..' please, mama mama, don't leave us mama!. The manager relented, and they somehow managed to keep the house. Ain't that salty? I want to be just like Rose.

How We Got Around

You could describe my childhood as "transportationally challenged". My mother never learned to drive, which was good for society in two ways; nobody ever got hurt, and it inspired her to invent pizza delivery.

Fortunately, my father drove her everywhere. Unfortunately, he died when I was nine. My mothers favorite mode of transportation in a city that barely had mass transit was the taxi cab. Actually, it was perfect for her, they were driving and she was Miss Daisy.

Here's how my mother invented pizza delivery. She would call and order a pizza from the only pizza parlour in our neighborhood. It was called Berconi's, and was owned by Bert Cohen who was really a nice Jewish man. Next, she would call the taxi stand that was behind the pizza store, which was called Center Cab. She was so bonded with the taxi dispatchers, they would have a taxi pick up her pizza, and deliver it to our house. Then my mom would reimburse the driver for both the pizza and the cab fare.

She would shop for groceries at the beginning of the month, and would tip the driver to carry a months worth of groceries into the house for us. My mother taught my sisters and me how to tip correctly at a very young age. She is a very charming woman, and to this day, is loved and admired by cabbies coast-to-coast, LA to Chicago.....'cause she's a smooth oper-A-tor.

My sisters and I walked everywhere. Until we went off to Jr. High School, we never left our neighborhood unless we actually left town. If it wasn't walking distance, we didn't go. You'd be surprised how far walking distance becomes once you get used to it.

We always seemed to live at the bottom of really big hills, and the first mile was straight up. I always thought of it as a metaphor for life, and when I bought my first house, I looked for the flattest neighborhood I coud find in the seven hills area. Eventually, somewhere along the way, we got tired of walking 10 miles each way to school. That's when we learned how to ride the Metro.

The mass transit system in Cincinnati is sub-par compared to most major cities, but like a cheap liquor in a crunch, it will get you where you're going. Or, as Patrick said, cheap liquor helps if you have to ride the Metro. You should go back to older posts and read Patricks mass transit story about the guy and the booger, it's a classic.

The worst part about riding the Metro is that you have to do everything on their schedule, whether they have one or not. If you're not at the orange pole, waving, they'll pass your ass right up. Also, never try to run and catch the bus. The average Metro driver lives to pass you up, and the smug, pointing-and-laughing-at-you looks on the other passengers faces, who were actually at the bus stop on time, will just kill your entire week. Just pretend like you meant to miss the bus, trust me, it's easier on your ego.

When it came time to bust out of Cincinnati, it was always on the Greyhound. Now that's a special experience all un to itself. It's a sub-culture both on the buses and in the terminals. Interesting how it's called Greyhound and they keep their passengers in "terminals" just like race dogs. It just came to me and I had to point it out.

Anyway, however long any trip would be by car, multiply it by 5 and that's how long it takes to get there on the Greyhound. Also, if an obese man eating cold taco's gets on the bus, he will always sit next to you, sometimes for twelve hours or more. I won't even get started on whether or not you should ever sit anywhere near the on board potty.

The upside to riding the Greyhound is that it's cheap, and always takes the scenic routes. The stops along the way are sort of nostalgic to me. Who doesn't love stretching their legs at 4 in the morning at the Evansville, IN bus station? When you suddenly go from cold, smelly, diesel fuel to warm, smelly diesel fuel mixed with coffee and french fries, it's feels just like leaving home. So special.

Finally, when I was eighteen, I bought a car. It seemed to be a really good reason to get a drivers license so I did that next. Then, after 3 or so years, I got so sick of owning a car so I sold it and didn't buy another one for 5 years. After five years more of riding the Metro, it's a dream of mine to never ride it again. The Elevated it ain't. So there you have it.