Happy 90th Birthday Mom!

Everyday I spend with my mother is special.  But today is especially meaningful because it is my mother’s birthday.  She is ninety years old. Ninety!  Such a big number for such a small, but mighty and sometimes feisty, but always fabulous woman.  She calls herself a broad which always makes me giggle because she is refined.  A lady.  She’s quite a gal. 

We are inseparable. Joined at the hip.  We are so close that when she breathes, I exhale. 

We are the best of friends.  I adore and admire her, and I’m so grateful that she’s my mother.  Everyone who knows us refers to us as, “The Girls.”  And we are.  Just two great girl friends.  The best of pals.

One of my students asked me what I wanted for Chanukah this year.  I smiled.  That was easy.  I already have the greatest gift of all:  My mother.  I love her, but  Best of all I like her and Most of all, I treasure her.

HAPPY 90^TH BIRTHDAY MOM!

The Surprise Party!

I can’t even begin to tell you how excited I was from the anticipation of  Mom’s upcoming surprise fiesta, but I was also nervous that I wouldn’t be able to manage a piñata the size of Texas, a dozen balloons, two over-sized boxes of Dunkin Donuts, one dozen bagels, two containers of cream cheese, big bags of cups, knives, forks, spoons, two large boxes of coffee and decorations…all alone.

Making a surprise birthday party for my fabulous mother is great dilemma, if one has to have a dilemma.  But the logistics petrified me and I wondered if I could actually pull this party off without a glitch.

So, I called my good friend Debbie and breathlessly told her how nervous I was doing all of this alone and only had thirty minutes to set up the room.

“No problem!” she said with her usual cheery voice. “Tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”

Talk about a voice of reason.  Just what I needed.  I don’t have super human strength, just super-duper ideas and a super friend.  I’m no Wonder Woman…just a girl who wonders, what if?  And now, How to?

First thing in the morning, I picked up all the goodies, ran off to the party store and tried to put twelve balloons in the backseat of my car.  Talk about a Woody Allen moment…the wind picked up, a balloon or two cooperated and remained in my car while the others were balloons gone crazy, flying willy-nilly above, around and below the car, with me, pushing, shoving and using the occasional swear word.  Eventually the car was stuffed and ready to go.

I arrived fifteen minutes early and began unloading all the party stuff and at exactly 9:30…not 9:31, I saw Debbie’s smiling face.  Whew!  What a relief to have not only back-up, but back-up from a friend- a calm friend.

Like two Tasmanian devils, we got that non-descript room put together with zero time to spare.  Fortunately I told my mother the class would begin fifteen minutes late, giving myself and Deb a little extra window of time.

My classmates and Mike Svob, our beloved teacher, arrived and everyone began practicing,  LAS MAÑANITAS  the Mexican birthday song, when suddenly I remembered my mother saying she would text me on the way to class but my phone was still in the car.  Hmmff!  I dashed outside to my car, anticipating her text message, but instead there she was!  Darn!  Why does everyone in my family run on time?  Whatever happened to Spanish time? 

I still had a few things left in the trunk of my car, but oh well!  I couldn’t have her enter the room without me, right?  So, we went hand-in-hand to the class.

As we entered the room, everyone began singing the Happy Birthday song with gusto.  I looked at my mother’s face.  She looked puzzled.  Then shocked…why is the class singing?  Naturally she didn’t recognize the song and then the proverbial light bulb lit above her head as she glanced around the decorated room:  balloons, colorful tablecloths, piñata, tables full of so much food, we could have nourished all the people in Asia…and then it hit her.  The party was for her.

La Reina Suprema ~ Long Live the Queen!

The look on her face was priceless.  Talk about a Kodak moment…but there was a glitch.  My camcorder was missing. Drats!  And then Double Drats!  One for needing it to record such a fun and momentous moment and the Second Drats because, well:  MY CAMCORDER WAS STOLEN OR MISSING!

Thank goodness for technology.  I had my iPad and took some pictures as my mother sat down. When the class finished singing, Carole, a dear classmate noticed that the lyrics were Christian based.

“So, what would we sing to someone Jewish?” she inquired?

Without missing a beat, I chimed in, “Hava Nagilah!”

Everyone laughed.

Meanwhile, Carole Edelsky had cut strips of colorful paper so that each of us could write something thoughtful on the provided pieces of paper.

  Then each person would roll it up and tie a ribbon around the little package.  I had a bowl for those lovely messages and placed it in front of my mother.

Mike Svob

Our sensational, one-helluva-guy and fantastic teacher Mike Svob wrote this lovely note:

I'm a bit of a mischief-maker and love to be playful.  So, in front of my mother's place setting I put a tiara for the elegant woman she is and also a devil's headband for the "rebel" rouser that is part of her DNA along with the following note: SUGAR AND SPICE ~ BUT NAUGHTY AND NICE!

The fiesta was sensational.  My mother was glowing and I can’t remember feeling so happy.

But as it turned out this was only the first of two surprises, which surprised even me.

After the fiesta, I had to work.  Later that afternoon, my two brothers flew in from different states to celebrate her 90^th birthday. The oldest, Bobby-Noogie Champion, Barbie Decapitator and CEO of Teasers International- and Rich-former Mr. Goodie-Two-Shoes arranged to meet at the airport and go directly to see my mother.

While I was teaching, my cell phone rang.  Mom!  Who ignores a call from one’s mother?  Certainly not me.  

When I answered, she said, “Erika’s here!” Granddaughter numero uno with the carrot red hair.  The boys didn’t even tell me about one of my nieces coming to visit.  

Can you imagine how loved my mother felt when her granddaughter flew all the way from Nebraska to see her?

My mother is loved and adored by some very special people.  And that’s what really matters in life.  It’s about the being with people who care enough to want to be with you, even if they have to fly great distances to celebrate and make you feel appreciated.

My mother is one special lady and those who know her or have gotten to know her realize what a treasure she is.

PS. A special thanks to my dear friend Deborah for helping me make a celebration fit for a Queen 

The fabulous Deborah Weiss

and to Mike Svob, (teacher extraordinaire), Carole Edelsky and the entire class for adding to the festivities with your warmth and love!

Carole Edelsky ~ Creative Card Designer 

But most of all, a special thanks to my mother, Helene Goldman for being my mother, my best friend and fun loving mischief-maker...and for being you, the lady I love and adore!  

My mother ~ 90 years of Mayhem!  Long Live The Queen!

Puttin on the Ritz~Spanish Style...Ole!

I love birthdays even when they’re not mine because I adore celebrating my loved ones and spoiling them. Planning surprises fills me with joy.

So, with my mother’s upcoming BIG birthday, I wanted to do something special.  Grand.  But she said she didn’t want a party.  Now really, who doesn’t want a party?  So, I accepted her preference for, well, let’s just say a nano-second.  Then good sense kicked in.  Since when do I listen to her anyway?

Mom is entering the next decade of life: Ninety. Isn’t that something to celebrate?  And she is someone special to celebrate, birthday or not.  So, what am I supposed to do?  Listen like a good daughter?  Give her a Hallmark card, a kiss on the cheek and say with enthusiasm, “Happy Birthday, Mom!”

Not happening.

Something this fabulous and joyous needs fanfare and if not from me, then from whom?

But she insisted she didn’t want a party.  And in my heart of hearts, I just couldn’t ignore this birthday. 

Mom and I are studying Spanish together and during a recent Spanish class, I suddenly had a thought. One of those ah-ha moments.  Wouldn’t it be fun to have a little surprise fiesta for her. Nothing big or fancy since 

I had already done that for her 70^th birthday, but something celebratory.

So, I contacted the professor and he agreed.  Fortunately at our next gathering, my mother was late.  No woman ever cancels her beauty appointment for anything or anyone.  More women have cancelled their doctor’s appointments rather than missing having cut and color.  And today was no exception. Mom was being dolled up.

So, as the Head Instigator, unanimously selected by an anonymous vote of three: me, myself and I, the conspiracy began to unfold in class with her absence.  I asked the class what they thought about having an impromptu party and they embraced the idea.  Other than my mother, who doesn’t love a reason to celebrate?  

One gal suggested that she would bring music.  The teacher said he would teach us how to sing, LAS MAÑANITAS, the Mexican Happy Birthday song.  I sing completely off key, so he may regret his kindness.  Maybe I’ll take pity on the great guy and bring ear plugs.  Or maybe I’ll just lip sync like I did in 7^th grade chorus.

Another gal planned to cut strips of paper for all the students to write birthday wishes which would then be rolled length-wise and tied with colorful ribbons and placed in a bowl.

At this point, my mind was spinning.  So, now we have music and messages, but that alone doesn’t make a party.  The conference room is bare, and at the very least, boring. Plain.  Simple.  Tables, chairs and a large write-on - wipe-off board. Ho-hum.

I can’t have a party for the Queen of Razzle Dazzle in a bare and boring room.  Not happening.

Off to the party store I flew.  I only had a few hours to plan this mini extravaganza.  I purchased pink, yellow, orange, violet and turquoise table cloths with matching balloons with complimentary ribbons that would be set in the middle of the table.  Since the theme is Mexico, I had to have a piñata, right?  But not a bull.  My mother is too feminine for Toro.  I found a darling paper mache piñata box topped with tissue paper flowers. Perfect!  It would make a great center piece on the table of goodies.

Pinata

The party was beginning to take form, but there were several problems.  I just couldn’t imagine the logistics of my plan. How do I drive with balloons in the car?  Talk about no visibility. Where would I keep the cake that would read, FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS HELENE!   I can’t keep the sheet cake in the frig. because she would see it and if a friend had room in theirs, I would have to impose upon my friend to bring it.  Then, there is the cutting of the cake.  After a few pieces, the knife is always covered with cake and frosting, so I’d need paper towels, a glass with water to clean the knife after each cut and paper towels to clean up.  What a mess.

Okay that won’t work.  Fortunately my mother loves Dunkin Donuts and I’d select them in all shapes and colors. They would look festive on the brightly colored trays, matching all of the decorations.

Speaking of decorations, where could I hide them? Where would I put the piñata, table cloths, paper plates without her discovering them?   So, I got sneaky.  What choice did I have? The only logical choice: In my car, of course~where else?!

 And so began the hiding of all things fiesta in the trunk of my car which is now loaded with all the party supplies. I hope the piñata won’t get crushed rolling around with all my boxes of teaching tools with each jerk of the brake as I drive to all the homes of my students prior to the party.

Back to the conference room:

Picture the classroom pre-surprise party:  Five tables pushed together.  Non-descript room, but great people and professor.  Most of the Spanish students have a place card on the table in front of themselves with their names written clearly.  While this helps us remember the names of our fellow classmates, I thought it would be more fun to jazz things up a bit…without my mother’s knowledge of course.

During one of the first sessions we attended, the professor asked us to describe ourselves.  Mind you, my mother hadn’t taken a Spanish class in seventy-six years.  So, she said only two words:  Fiesta Animal ~Party Animal.  You can imagine the roar of laughter that ensued.  When you think of a ninety year old woman, you certainly don’t picture her calling herself a party animal!  It was a hoot and after that she became the unsinkable Molly Brown, Mame mixed with a healthy dash of Mae West.

Get the picture?

So on one day, I brought a card which said:  CEO ~ Trouble-Maker International and placed it in front of her.  She couldn’t understand why everyone was laughing until she turned the card around and gave me a sharp elbow to the ribs.  In front of me was a card which read: Intern in Training.  The class roared.

At the surprise party, I will have a rhinestone crown and a devil's horn headband in her place at the table with a sign that reads:  Sugar and Spice, but sometimes Naughty and Nice!

Anyway, the Surprise Party is tomorrow and I am so excited to do a little something special for my mother.  Just do me a favor.  Don’t tell!  It’s a secret!  Ssssshhhhh!

Mini, but Mighty!

When I was little, I thought my mother was a giant.  Not like Jack in the Bean-Stalk’s giant…but tall.  Huge.  Grandiose. Larger than life.

She could battle the world with her tremendous command of the English language and with one look…the look, she could conquer the bravest of the brave.  The strongest of the strong.

She went to battle against teachers, principals who had no principles and university teachers, professors and even medical school administration when someone was wrong or overstepping authority in order to protect me and my brothers.  She could be fierce.  But she could be soft, too, when need-be.

Basically, she was my David against a world of Goliaths.  And my brother's advocate, too.

And yet, she was a lady and knew how to have a persuasive conversation, without raising a voice.  Her well defined raised eyebrow was another matter.  I think John Belushi stole that iconic reference from my mother.

Just recently at the gym, a big-shot in Tucson started to bully me and other women nearby. The women cowered.  One cried.

Me…well, let’s just say the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.  I defended myself much to his agitation.  

Unfortunately, the tyrant who looked like Popeye’s Bluto, continued to badger me.  I spoke quietly while carrying a big stick which infuriated him more.

After several rounds with this member, I joined my mother who was talking to another member when Big-Shot comes over.

“What’s your name?” His voiced boomed at me, reverberating in the large work-out room.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’m going to report you!”

“You’re going to report me?” I repeated, feeling like I was in a George and Gracie episode.  “You’re going to report me? To whom?  The gym gestapo?” 

Everyone within ear-shot laughed.

Big-Shot fumed, not amused by my silly humor.

“You were rude to me,” he declared.

“Really? What did I do?”

“You didn’t sign in on the board to use the bicycle when I told you to.”

“I signed in after I put my towel on the bike.”

“You’re supposed to sign in first.  That’s the rule.  And you broke the rule.  I don’t like members who break the rule.

 “I donated $250,000 to this building.  I can have you thrown out.  Everyone would believe me because they know I’m right. I’m always right.”

I imagined smoke coming out his nose, making him look like a cartoon dragon. The weird things that pop into my mind always amaze and delight me.

Enter my mother-the peace-maker and voice of reason.

“Who are you?” he asked my mother, ready to take her name down for some unknown gym crime.

“Look, I know who you are,” she said gently. “And I know that you have gifted many establishments with donations which is not only considerate but speaks volumes about your civic responsibility.

“I think there may have been a little misunderstanding.  The young lady over there put her belongings down before signing in.  Really, what’s the harm?  The gym has always been a place where people enjoy each other, respect each other…”

“But the rules have to be followed.”

“And they were, just not in the order you preferred.  We respect everyone’s differences and have always admired your philanthropic work.

“Everyone who knows you realizes the great work you have done for our community and it is very much appreciated.”

My mother could unruffle the feathers of two big birds at a cock fight, making them best friends for life. She stroked Big-Shot’s over-inflated ego and he finally exhaled and resumed working out, puffing his chest out at least an inch with a smirk on his face from the recognition she gave him.

My mother and I gave each other the knowing look. The other gym members were shocked she could appease the Tasmanian Tyrant.  No one ever dared speak to Big-Shot that way…and get her way. Especially a woman.

I glanced over at Big-Shot on the treadmill and watched him scratch his behind and then blow his nose in the provided towel the gym gives us to use.

I think we may need a new gym rule for this:  No blowing one’s nose in the gym’s towel.

My mother was soft-spoken, wearing invisible boxing gloves; she knows how to talk to men with a soft voice, and simultaneously stroke the ego and calm the tempers of angry tyrants. Talk about a world-class diplomat.

She is brilliant.  Eloquent.  Erudite.  That’s her winning combination.  Add Brains and Beauty, too, and what have you got?  A killer combo.

 My mother, a pretty amazing woman.  Whatta Lady!

My Kinda Broad...My Mother Is!

I am dedicating the month of November to a special woman in my life.  She is my best friend and the most extraordinary person I have ever known.

Listing adjectives to describe her is easy:   She is intelligent, witty, creative, sassy, (extra heavy on the sassy) wise, kind, compassionate, passionate, loving, and has a fabulous sense of humor: dry and poignant at the same time.

She’s adventurous, a risk-taker, and loves anything with rhinestones and glitz.  She also loves the occasional Nathan’s hot dog with salty ripple fries, 

Helene and Heidi Goldman

Kasha Varnishkas, hot pastrami/corn beef on rye and everything sweet and unhealthy, (some role model!) like Dunkin Donuts, cookies, cakes, pastries, Mallomars, and all things chocolate like, Mrs. Krause and See’s candy.  The woman's a chocoholic, no doubt about that. And to that comment she would say, "And there's something wrong with that?"

When she purchased a new freezer, she dashed out to the grocery store and bought 25 quarts of ice cream.  Need I say more?

This amazing woman protects the under-dog and is always first in line to help someone who is suffering. 

She has taught me about life and love, mentored me as a budding and insecure writer and has been my advocate and biggest cheerleader my entire life.

She gave me life.  She has made my life.  She is my life.

I wish to present, my mother:  Helene (with an “e”) Goldman.

Most people love their mothers…to some degree.  But how many like them?  Admire them?  Respect them?  

Even want to be like them?  Except for the height in this case.  This ballabuster, hell on wheels, is a whopping 4’9” tall…but rumor has it that she was once 5’2.”  Who am I to disagree?  The woman could wrestle a 6’4” man without so much as a drop of perspiration on her forehead.  I should know.  My father, said tall man, was often taken down during a playful match.  Maybe he pretended to take the fall, but it sure looked real to me at the time.

In honor of my mother’s upcoming 90^th birthday, I wish to celebrate her on my blog for the entire month so that you too can have the good fortune to get to know her as I have.  She’s a hoot.  A gal.  A broad.  A helluva woman.

Here’s:   Heleneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Helene Goldman ~ A singular sensation! with Heidi Goldman, loving mischief-maker and her daughter 

Mermaids, Music and Me

My mother tells everyone she’s older than dirt.  Can you imagine how old I must have felt when I received a FB message one day from a former student wondering if I would teach her four year old daughter?

Since I still have my Barbie’s, love to play dress-up and can still fit into some of my favorite outfits from high school, I somehow forgot that as my student’s matured, I grew old…well, older.  And now a former student is all grown up with a daughter. I’m not sure if I was in shock that I had actually grown older since I’ve always had the Peter-Pan mindset and thankfully genes or I was shocked to learn my former student was a mother.

I’ve taught 2,000 kids, more or less, in my career and believe it or not, I haven’t forgotten any of my students.  They have all touched my heart one way or another.  I know I shouldn’t admit this, but Laura was a favorite of mine. 

You know the rule:  teachers must never have favorites, but some kids just get under your skin.  She was intelligent, sweet, and had a smile that could light up a room with rays of sunshine.

Even her dog, Lucy, was fabulous.  Lucy was a miniature collie with a white bunny tail.  Talk about cute.

Anyway, the day I received Laura’s FB message, tears formed in my eyes.   I was so touched that she remembered me after all these years.  That somehow I made a difference in her life. 

I had always hoped to be someone’s Mrs. O’Brien, my fifth grade teacher, who made a defining difference in my life.  She changed me profoundly and I have always hoped to do the same for my students.

Laura and I spoke and selected a time for me to teach Samantha.  The four year old was waiting for me at the front door, peeking out the window.  

I saw the most beautiful fairy princess ever.  I think if Disney needs a young starlet to portray a little girl-turned princess-Samantha would be given a contract for life.

The door opened and Laura was standing next to Samantha.  Laura’s brilliant smile radiated, almost blinding me. The years hadn’t changed her.  Still beautiful, sweet and her mini-me was glowing with happiness. 

Samantha Princess Pianist

She twirled in her turquoise sparkly princess dress and walked across the floor on her tippy toes, like a ballerina, minus toe shoes, and I ooh-and ahhh-ed over her dress, her loveliness…her everything.

I was filled with so much love, the tears barely remained in my eyes.  I was so touched to be reunited with Laura and now to have the honor of teaching her daughter~truly a princess.

Every week Samantha still waits for me at the front door, peeking through the window, wearing a different outfit. I never know if she will be a roaring twenties flapper, mermaid, or lollipop.

Flapper Pianist

Mermaid and Music

Lollipop Musician

Like mother, like daughter: Laura and Samantha ~  Heidi Goldman's students

The one thing I do know is that child has made a profound difference in my life and I hope to do the same for her.  Time will tell.

Heidi Goldman with Samantha

So, if I get a FB message from Samantha in years to come asking if I’m still teaching piano and would I consider teaching her daughter…I will take out my Barbie’s, put on a flapper dress and dash over to see a third generation of fabulous girls.

                                                                 

Conversations Around The Piano

When I sit next to my piano students and watch them play their scales and chords, occasionally a child will stop,  looking earnestly into my eyes and tell me something important. Or silly. And if the child is three to six years old, h/she might not know the difference.

Sometimes I feel like I’m in a sitcom from the 1950’s.  Picture George Burns and Gracie Allen:

Unfortunately, I’m always the straight-man in these scenarios…minus the cigar and chin stubble.

One afternoon while I was teaching three year old Matthew, he stopped playing his five finger C scale and looked at me with urgency.

“Miss Heidi?  I have to tell you. Something ‘portent,”

“Can it wait until after you finish playing your scales?”

“Nooooooooooooo!”

I looked at the three year old with concern.  “What is it?”

“I used to have a pet.”

I grinned.  “Oh?”

“Uh-huh.”

Here comes the set-up a la George and Gracie:

“What was it?”

“An ant.”

“You had a pet ant?”

“His name was Fred.”

 “What happened to him?”

“He’s dead!”  His eyes filled with tears.

“Dead?  How did he die?”

“Daddy stepped on him.”

I bit my lip hard to stop the grin that was forthcoming.  A tragic story in the life of a three year old.

“I’m sure daddy didn’t see him.  It was an accident, honey.”

“Should I play my G scale now?”

I placed a loving arm around his shoulder.  “Remember to curve your fingers.”

“I know, I know!  Uh, Miss Heidi?”

“Yes, Matthew?”

“What was the name of that guy who was deaf and could still write music?”

“The composer’s name was Beethoven.”

“Wasn’t he a dog?”

As a child specialist…these are the tender moments I treasure.

Treble Clef