When We are Seventy and You are Forty…by Robert M. Katzman
In July 1993, my youngest child and daughter, Rachel, then nearly thirteen, had her Bat Mitzvah.
At her party, her mother Joyce and I read this serious poem I’d written for the happy occasion. Her grandparents, Irv and Anne, my parents, were both there that day, as they were at my Bar Mitzvah thirty years earlier, in 1963. Her older sister, Lisa (then eighteen) and her older brother David (then fifteen) were there as well. I tried to read my words, and failed, as usual. But Joyce finished all of it, as she always has:
When We are Seventy and You are Forty
©1993 by Robert M. Katzman
When we are seventy and you are forty:
It won’t matter if you ever repaired that explosion you called your room.
It won’t matter that all of our bath towels were in your room, soaking wet, and on the floor in Hamsterland.
It won’t matter that your determined gymnastics in the living room sounded like incoming rockets when we were in the basement.
When we are seventy and you are forty:
It won’t matter that your high-spirited mob of friends kept us up until three in the morning, whenever they slept over.
It won’t matter whether you were an honor student or a misfit.
It won’t matter that little bits of evidence of Rachel would be found in every single room you’d been in.
When we are seventy and you are forty,
All that will count to us is:
When the good things happen in your life, you will want us to know.
When you experience pain of any kind, you will always know our hearts and arms are open to you.
When we call you to talk, you will always be willing to listen to us.
When we have heartache, we can always find solace with you.
When we are seventy and you are forty,
And your brother is forty-two and your sister is forty-five:
May we all feel as much love for each other then, as we all feel for each other today.
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As expected, Time did, in fact, flow by.
But only three years later, at sixteen, Rachel managed to single-handedly convince her extremely reluctant father to agree to adopt a baby girl, at a point when he thought he was done with that whole part of his life.
That new baby, Sarah, born 9/11/96 will soon be a Bat Mitzvah girl herself in September of 2009. God willing, all of us-except my parents-will be there with her.
Rachel, now twenty-eight, will be married to her love, Gary, on December 21st 2008 in a unique conglomeration of happy events: The first day of Chanukkah (and winter), her brother David’s thirtieth birthday, and depending on fate, her older sister Lisa–hopefully still available as a bridesmaid–will make her newly married sister a brand new aunt, her brother an uncle, and twelve-year-old Sarah a new aunt too, with the birth of our first grandchild due sometime in early December. Or later. God knows. We’ll save an extra chair for the child, should he or she be present at the wedding. Such a nice thought.
And Joy and I? We were forty-three then, and we’re fifty-eight now. We both feel the quickening pace of time.
Some people reading this reflection today who are more familiar with my family’s earlier history, may share with me a sort of amazement that out of so much long ago incomprehensible conflagration, so much happiness can still grow, and flourish. Flowers in the desert, it seems. I embrace my expectation of pleasure. I must.
On this day, seven years after my mother’s last breath, I choose to celebrate life, and not grieve over her death.
Yet, contemplating all of this–what was and shouldn’t have been, what is and should always continue to be—I find even the anticipation of so much love and celebration can somehow still be heartbreaking, and I may never figure it out.
Tears are tears, no matter the reason that makes them flow.
But come December 21st, 2008, confused or not, I will say to Lisa and Terry: Mazel Tov!
To Rachel and Gary: Congratulations!!
To David: Happy birthday!!
And of course, Happy Chanukkah to everyone!!
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An odd thought just occurred to me: When Lisa and Terry’s child has it’s Bar or Bat Mitzvah in 2020, Joy and I will in fact be seventy, God willing, and Rachel will be forty. That is so eerie. Or intended. Who knows?
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Note from the Author:
Robert M. Katzman, owner of Fighting Words Publishing Company, with four different titles currently in print and over 4,000 books sold to date, is seeking more retail outlets for his vivid and non-fiction inspirational books:
Independent bookstores, Jewish and other religious organizations, Chicago historical societies or groups, English teachers who want a new voice in their class who was a witness to history, book clubs, high schools or museum gift shops. I will support anyone who supports me by giving readings in the Chicago Metro area. I have done this over 40 times, and I always sign my books, when asked. Everyone, positively everyone, asks. I was amazed, at first, by that.
Individuals who wish to order my books can view the four book covers and see reviews of them at www.FightingWordsPubco.com
There are links to YouTube and podcasts, as well. Or, anyone can call me directly at (847) 274-1474. Googling my name will also produce all kinds of unusual results. That other Robert M. Katzman, now deceased, whose name will also appear and who also published, was a doctor. He actually bought one of my books! Such a nice man. Rest in peace, Dr. Katzman.
There will be short poems, stories and essays published in this space every two weeks by either myself or my co-blogist Richard G. Munden, or both. If you find our postings thought provoking, moving or even amusing, please tell others to come view this site. We will find our strength in your numbers.
Next year, I will publish my fifth book, a collection of my best poetry and essays, called,
I Seek the Praise of Ordinary Men
Individuals who know of independent bookstores that might be interested in a rough-hewn guy like me, who ran a chain of newsstands for 20 years in Chicago, please tell them about my books, will you? I am partial to independent bookstores, having owned two, myself, until my last one was killed by the giant chains, in 1994. I still miss it.
I’m also looking to find someone who would want to make a play out of some of my stories in the Chicago area, so I could go there and do some readings sometimes. I think there’s enough honest sex, drugs and rock n’ roll to hold anyone’s interest, as well as a lot of authentic dialogue from ordinary people in extraordinary situations. I think the plays would work anywhere, frankly, in some intimate theater with talented actors.