I suspect that December 31st is the day in the year when the most blog posts are written. There’s something about the end of a calendar year that makes people feel like they have an opportunity to stop, take stock, and leave some sort of a record of where their thinking is at. And it actually makes a bit of sense, I suppose, though I wish there were more days in the year when we are encouraged to do this. At least it’d make New Year’s a lot less intense.
So what was this year like? A year ago today–in fact a year ago this morning–I returned to the US from a trip to Mexico with our school’s Habitat for Humanity club. 
My decision to go on this trip was spontaneous. I regretted it about an hour after I agreed to go, but I’d given my word. So I was nervous as anything for the weeks leading up to our departure. I had no idea what to expect. Would the kids behave themselves, or at some point would I have to go to the Tecate central police station to bail a couple of them out? Would we be able to build a house? Would I prove, once and for all, my incompetence with power tools?
I’ll spare you the suspense. Everything was fine:
The trip was incredible. I’d never encountered the poverty of the developing world first-hand before, and living in it for three days really put a lot in perspective. Going from Tijuana to a nice New Year’s Eve party in Carroll Gardens was disorienting, to say the least.
A few months later, I returned to lead the same trip. This one was even more fun than the first. More importantly, it kicked off the best summer I’ve had my recent history of summers.
On the day I returned to the States, I moved into my own apartment. There was nothing wrong with the old place–in fact, it was pretty much the best roommate situation I’d ever had. Living with Kevin, a friend from back in high school, was easy. Just two dudes in a townhouse with all of our basic needs covered, and then some. But 2007 was the year when I decided I needed my own space and to make my own struggle and find my way. So I moved seven exits down the highway into the first floor of an old two-family. I’ve finally (like, as of last week) got everything set up the way I like it, though I’m still looking for someone to give me a really nice couch for free (or close to it). I’ve got room here to work, to read, to watch TV, to have a couple of people over. I wish I had a bigger kitchen, because I cook a lot, but I can deal. It’s all good.
So I moved, then I started moving. I headed over to Scotland on an ESU fellowship with a week of backpacking in the Highlands and three weeks studying Creative Writing in Edinburgh.
The two trips to Mexico prepared me for this, the biggest challenge of my life: walking about 90 miles in a week with everything I needed on my back, then essentially functioning as a grad student in a foreign city. When I look back on my year, and on my late 20s (they were fun when they lasted), this stands out as one of Those Moments, a Time When Everything Changed.
Other things changed, too. I want to take a minute to remember three matriarchs of my family, all of whom passed this year. My grandmother, Rose Reiss Wasserman, was the biggest loss I’ve ever suffered. On the day she died, one of my students provided a nice distraction by presenting as both really high and really crazy, so I got to spend the majority of the day dealing with her, rather than my feelings. But then I couldn’t get away from the loss of my grandmother, who was also my last grandparent. This year has been one in which I’ve remembered her at odd moments–a smell, a taste, a song, all sorts of things can trigger a flood of reminiscences. Grandma’s sister-in-law, Helen Reiss, was her opposite, but the love between them was immense. Where Grandma was quiet and demure, Helen was a tornado of opinions and emotions. Where Grandma cooked and cleaned, Helen made jewelry and hats. To see the two of them together, though, was to see a friendship sealed by early hardship and graceful aging. We used to make jokes about Helen, but it was out of love, respect, and admiration for a life well-lived. Before she died, the last time she’d been in the hospital was when her younger daughter was born about 60 years prior.
I’m still not entirely clear on how I was related to Bertha Kalfus (I think she was a cousin of my maternal grandmother’s), but she was one of the only old people I met on my mom’s side. She and her husband, Fischel, left Germany in the 30s and made their way over to New York. Her brother, Josef Burg, was a force in Israeli politics. It was through Bertha’s branch of our clan that I connected to Israel and the Holocaust. Whenever I think of either of those two subjects, it is these people that come to my mind. My mom and her sister wound up spending a lot of time with Bertha, especially after Fischel died a few years ago and she had to move to a nursing home because of her failing health. I hadn’t seen her in over a year when she died, but I will always remember her as an extraordinarily feisty and pious woman who could swear with the best of them.
With Grandma Rose, Helen, and Bertha gone, I have no old people left. Sure, there are some elderly relatives out there, and my dad, who turned 65 this year, has cousins in their mid-70s, but they aren’t my old people. I guess this is how it works–families turn over, the old people leave and the babies arrive (hi, Jolie Rose!)–but it’s not easy. And with the joy of new children arriving comes the hardship when they get sick. We dealt with that this year, too–my cousin’s younger son has spent most of the year going through chemo- and other therapies. I want to see more of him in the coming year.
A lot of friends welcomed new babies, too, so here’s a spot for a big hello (and appropriately funny baby-faces) to Jacob, Beatrice, and Charlotte. I’m looking forward to meeting Laura and Chris’s first baby this spring, as well as Stephanie and Bob’s. I’m a sucker for babies.
What else happened this year? I played a lot of music. Kovax is on hiatus, but we’ll be back later this winter. Meanwhile, the Terryl Lee Band is in full effect. I brought Clark and Pete into the mix, and the five of us have been working hard on making this thing a success. We’re playing out once or twice a month between NYC and New Haven and are starting to get some fans. Not a bad thing.
It’s also been a year for meeting new people. Shouts to Michelle and Jen for keeping Pete and Clark in line, to Heather and Alek and Matt and Bettina and Amir and Ioanna and Dawn and Sarah and Swetha and Carly for making Edinburgh even more awesome than I could’ve imagined, and to Erica for keeping me busy as the winter doldrums have set in around these parts. I can’t imagine my life without any of you.
Peace and love for 2008, all.
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