Remember those days when you were a really young kid and you were getting ready for your brother’s wedding (because he was 20ish years older than you) and you got dressed before anyone else because getting dressed is sooooooo boring and then you escaped your parents’ watchful eye for an adventure, stained your dress immediately with the hue of fescue and then attempted to find your way back to what you thought was your hotel room and upon entry locked eyes with your dad’s ex wife’s husband who was definitely not NOT in the shower. 

You know how that goes. 

To this day I still do not know how I got back to the correct room as I was paralyzed with embarrassment and confusion for what seemed like one hundred years, AND every door looked the exact same. It was like I was in a Doctor Strange movie though very much without access to an infinity stone of any kind, just awkward encounters.  What I gathered later is that the frozen retina/shower moment only lasted for maybe two seconds before I dashed off. By the time I returned to my parents I explained in depth that I definitely was not going to my brother’s wedding and zipped my lips shut for the foreseeable future. 

I did finally get to this beautiful evening kibbutz simcha due to extreme bribery that turned very quickly into my father giving me the look that many kids may remember as the We are done having this conversation look and that was that. Aside from the breaking of the glass and a hora that would put most Broadway choreographed numbers to shame, the climax of the evening for me was when I saw my dad’s ex wife’s husband talking to my father. Every part of my soul wanted to evaporate forever into the warm sea salt Israeli air.  Post conclusion of observed conversation my dad walked over to me and sat down. He wiped the weird slithery bang that insisted on covering a quarter of my face and said,

 “No knock, no lock. Don’t worry about it , Jess – let’s dance.”

  I looked quickly over to where the conversation happened and locked eyes once again with the other half of my boundary busted party and he smiled and gave me a salute and went on his merry way. 

I was young enough to know that I made a mistake, although totally confused by it, and he was old enough to understand that I was a tiny kid and that he completely disregarded the whole door lock feature.  We all proceeded to pound our bare feet in circles throughout the night well into the absolute magnificence of a rooftop kibbutz sunrise and I will never forget being allowed to stay up all night to see this crimson explosion while holding hands with a community of people who held onto me like family.    

Forgiveness is huge. Empathy is even bigger. Did I come to this epiphany forty-three years ago because of a ridiculous and equally shocking moment in Northern Israel? I have had forty-three years to solidify my summary. Forgiveness and Empathy; this crucial duo does not exempt anyone for or from purposeful hurt and can never erase permanent damage done, but it does mean we allow ourselves a midnight hora and the wherewithal of future protection; a paradox happens – two very opposite things can be true at the same time.

Every morning on weekdays, as the sunrise flirts with the horizon, I’m outside. If you are looking out your window at insane o’clock and see someone in hot pink snow pants wearing headphones, a headlamp, wrapped in a tangled-up canine waist belt with sidekick canine, that’s me!  Whatever it takes I greet the yawning day and the other predawn weirdos. Recently one morning on my way to work a neighborhood dog walker saw me and said, “Wait, you’re the one who wears kids’ snow pants and that cyclops light!”  I nodded, cheeks matching said pants.

After repeatedly dropping my phone, spilling my coffee, tripping over my own feet, and waking everyone up in the house out I go trying to keep my blood pressure and emotions functioning at workable and acceptable levels. I crave structure and habit as much as I love a good ol’ romantic, spontaneous surprise; therefore, these morning adventures tend to appease the rivalry of riff raff that resides and pays rent in my brain.

Many mornings I feel like I am happening upon a private moment between the sun and our side of the Earth both sharing tales of rotations in the night and discussing what is to come for the day ahead. The ever changing glow of this prismatic horizon seems private and at times I feel like I am intruding on a secret. And most every morning, I am in fact, an observer of a beautiful secret.  See, there is this person who shuffle-jogs his way down the sidewalks. In front of what seems like every other house this particular individual stops his gait, reaches down to pick up a rolled up newspaper and gently tosses the paper so it reaches the front door of every journal awaiting home. Sometimes I get a wave; sometimes we simply pass one another in silent acknowledgement. It is this silence that tugs at my heart. This person will not see the relieved face of each groggy neighbor who appreciates not having to go out into the elements to retrieve their news. This person will not hear the hum of happy joints celebrating not having to walk through snow or navigate slippery steps.  This quiet act of kindness engulfs me with tenderness and reminds me of my dad saying, “Jessie, sometimes those who say nothing at all may be the ones climbing the biggest mountains.” 

He does this everyday – yet he asks for no thank you.

He tells no one – yet it happens and it is helpful.

Without even knowing it this man sends a teacher back home, gets her dressed, reminds her that her glasses are on her head and drives her to her classroom where she tries to payback the quiet, random gift of kindness which she observed at 6 a.m. Maybe then one of her students sees another student struggling and decides to smile instead of judge. Maybe. 

We all want to make our mark throughout the days and in this life. 

Many times our “marks” are made by the silent footprints we never see or hear, and this is just as good.

  I had a dream at the beginning of this past birthday weekend that one of my closest friends woke me up with a big surprise. In a groggy stupor I saw my bedroom door open and one by one my childhood buddies entered my room and took a seat next to each other in a circle. Within a blurry hallucination I went clockwise and gave each one of these individuals a hug. When the metaphorical clock struck twelve I came to Jeff. His famous curly locks were grown out past his shoulders representing the passage of time. We scooped each other up in an embrace that I could feel through my skin as if it was real. Tears spooled out of my eyes and into his wild tendrils. I told him how much I missed him over and over again.

     Then I woke up.

     I met this boy on my first day in Ms. Randall’s kindergarten class. I was working very hard to sit still in criss-cross applesauce amidst twenty or so fidgety five year-olds and behind this fantastic head of hair. Ignoring all rules of personal bubbles and space I couldn’t help myself and I stuck my pointer finger straight into the closest ringlet I could find. Instead of getting mad or telling me to poop myself Jeff turned around and gave me the biggest gappy toothy grin and we were buds forever after; both of us cut from a similar cloth.

     I will always miss this boy.  He came into and out of our lives like a feisty flame; this flame put out way too soon. 

     We all have a personal scaffolding of friendships and acquaintances, family and foes built carefully into the construction project that is our life. Scaffolding by definition however, is temporary; planks and poles slowly plucked away and/or embedded within us as our structure becomes stronger and more solid.

         For whatever reason and many this particular birthday hit me hard. I kind of panicked – freaked out. Turning forty-nine on the cusp of Yom Kippur; dang. Forty-nine is a culmination of what now is, hopefully, half a lifetime of memory and what will be new beginnings. I have said goodbye to both my parents; I am a great auntie seven times over; our children are adult people! How is this possible?! None of this was making any sense. And so when my husband said, “Happy Birthday” at midnight as we were driving I froze up, paralyzed. Ironically this mild panic attack happened on our way home from meeting the “party planner” in my dream after viewing the Talking Heads reunion film “Stop Making Sense.”  My mind was definitely blown, to quote my husband, after seeing this fantastic documentary. Turning forty-nine made no sense to me, but what did make sense was sharing this cuspy birthday with a friend of over 40 years and my hubby who I met at summer camp when I was nine. All these people are bound within the scaffolding of my life’s story.

    Much of our house is under construction right now; maybe that is from where this theme derives? (Come check out our porta potty in the front yard if you’re bored!) Alas,  I do not think so. I think I’m having a teeny tiny yet mighty midlife temper tantrum.

    I would not be who I was, am and will be because of the succulent scaffolding of people who have climbed and are climbing like a vine alongside me. Therefore,  alongside said tantrum is also deep gratitude, layered love, for every beam; every piece of wood.

And with that, L’Chaim! 

G’mar chatima tova 

“Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by, water flowing underground

Into the blue again, after the money’s gone

Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground”

-Talking Heads

My dad was a dentist who kept a private candy drawer. I knew he had it. He knew I knew he had it. We never spoke of it.

Throughout my young life and into adulthood, I would find my father during the night, droopy and snoring in his favorite chair, deep in REM sleep, a halo of light gently hovering over his salt-and-pepper hair, a tattered novel or newspaper balancing precariously atop his belly.

Strewn about, hiding in armpit crevices and scattered all over the floor, were crumpled wrappers from sour balls and Swedish licorice drops.

One of my favorite memories of this mediocre sugar stealth was the time I came home late from a night out during high school. I found my dad in his spot, eyes aflutter, head topsy-turvy. I sat next to him so I could finish the TV show he was not watching before I got tired and went to bed.

He must have sensed my presence and woke up. He turned his head to look at me and it was so obvious he had a piece of candy in his mouth, like a squirrel harboring an acorn. He then pretended to continue reading, ever so slightly sucking on the licorice or sour ball.

Years and years later, while visiting my dad in his new condo in Naples, Florida, I found my 5-year-old daughter and my father snuggling together in his chair, sharing a piece of candy from the secret drawer. I sat down next to them as inconspicuously and gently as I could so as not to scare away the moment. My dad leaned over, slipped me a Swedish licorice ball, and smiled. We did not speak, only chewed.

It had taken 31 years and a grandchild, but he’d finally acknowledged — and shared — his bounty.

This summer, I was diagnosed with high blood pressure after a year of marathon doctor visits — testing, measuring, checking and questioning. Finally, a hypertension specialist concluded her interrogation with a single question that shook me to my core: “Jessie,” she said, “do you by chance eat black licorice?”

Did I eat black licorice?

What she didn’t know is that my dad had died on Oct. 19, 2015. I still remember where I was sitting when I got the news. How the air felt on my skin, how numb my feet felt when I tried to get up to walk. In the floating haze of my grief, one thing that kept me grounded was the taste and smell of black licorice.

Once a month, my best friend’s father would mail me a huge bag of black licorice from Bulk Nation, the store in Florida where Dad bought his coveted supply. I’d squirrel it away into the freezer to hide from my family. Every night before bed, I’d slip two or three pieces of this candied ebony root into my mouth. These savory, sticky moments instantly transported me back to his chair — his quirks, his need for privacy, his humor. I missed him so much. For this one brief moment each night, licorice gave my dad back to me.

There, on the second floor of the UW Health Preventive Cardiology Clinic, my eyes flooded with tears as I confessed to the doctor that yes, I ate black licorice every night.

“No more black licorice for you,” she said, tender but firm.

I’d of course known that eating candy every night might be bad for my teeth — I was a dentist’s daughter, after all. But it had never occurred to me that there were other health problems associated with eating too much licorice. It turns out that black licorice contains glycyrrhizic acid, which can cause swelling and high blood pressure while depleting electrolytes, disrupting heart rhythm and causing other damage. It is recommended that at-risk hypertension patients like me should just avoid this candy altogether. The FDA warned that ingesting more than two ounces per day for two weeks could cause an irregular heart rhythm, and I was definitely eating more than that. From that moment on, I’d have to find another way to keep my memories of my dad close.

In Judaism, the anniversary of a death is called a “yahrzeit.” This past fall, as my father’s yahrzeit approached, I sat patiently with my new wireless at-home blood pressure monitor on my left upper arm, awaiting my daily diastolic and systolic summary, missing licorice — when I heard my father’s voice in my head: “Jessie! Acccchhh, feh! Who needs to have everything all the time, every day?” I laughed, remembering another one of his common phrases: “Everything in moderation.” It was as if he’d come back to parent me once again. Who needs black licorice every day and in excess amounts? Apparently, not me. But I did need to feel connected to him.

Memories of those we love come back when we least expect it, sometimes taking our breath away and stopping us in our tracks. Every human connection is unique. I still had the sour balls — hopefully medical research leaves those alone — but the loss of this licorice connection to my father left me feeling untethered, dangling between the past and the unknown.

So I found new tactile reminders of him. Now I pull out the handful of wrapped Macanudo cigars that were found in his belongings and give them a good sniff. I put on one of his favorite records, Billy Joel’s “The Stranger.” Then I unwrap a sour ball, close my eyes and think of him.

May we all find a way back to those we miss.

Jessie Loeb is a postpartum infant and maternal care specialist, and a licensed secondary childbirth and parenting educator at Capital High in Madison. Her new parenting memoir, “Puddle Splashing,” is available at jessieloebdoula.com and area bookstores.

Seems like nobody is talking about the Barbie movie so I thought I’d start the conversation. 

I jest!

In all seriousness, this past week has been full of personal participation in and/or observation of many messages and conversations between friends and family regarding this film. People I love, adore, and respect all have a mix of sentiments about the theme, main synopsis, basic interest, indifference, obsession, etc. with Greta Gerwig’s take on all things pink and Mattel! 

Spoiler – this essay is not going to include my intimate individual or private Warner Bros. Production analysis. There is no way I could even try to keep up with the social media outpour of viewpoints in connection to Robbie, Gosling, patriarchy, flat feet, and Weird Barbie. I can only write about the tears that pooled out of my eyeholes after this film was over. All I could think about on the ride home was my own experience with this doll and all the whys and hows of how having this doll and her buddies possibly kept my 7-year-old body from crumbling into a million pieces. After hearing and reading a lot of the commentary that is out there I can already hear the judgment or support – either way doesn’t matter, this is my memory and my experience. 

After we lost my mom I would go into my room and shut the door and bury Barbie! I buried her A LOT! I buried her in my closet, under my bedspread, in my shoes, in my drawers, in my pillowcase, and under a plethora of stuffed animals. Sometimes my dad or my aunt would peek into my room, see the extensive funeral arrangements, and then awkwardly shut the door. I buried Barbie for quite a long time. I knew I recovered somewhat or at least crawled out from my chrysalis of despair when I decided to curl Barbie’s hair, became distracted, and melted her face off! 

I did not understand at age seven how death worked or why it exploded into my life;  all I understood was my mom was gone. I did get that. So I was given the space and privacy to grieve and be absolutely alone in my sadness and, from an observer’s eye, my shady and cryptic routine. No one tried to stop me from burying Barbie; no one tried to play Bury Barbie with me; I did not have to explain myself or listen to anyone tell me how to find closure with Barbie. When I shut the door it was only us – plastics and purgatory.  Jeez, this would definitely make Robbie’s Barbie cry – if I’m not careful this will turn into a scrutiny of the film – let’s get outta here!

I can not tell you how to feel, BUT do not feel I am saying one needs time with a Barbie to work through mental health issues – I am NOT saying that; However, the point I am trying to make is that I had privacy in my pain and the solace in which to grieve. I think of my kids and my students. Do our children have space to feel authentically in a world of noise and phones and social media posts that may inevitably cause conflict in comparisons? As a mom and teacher, I sometimes have this guttural instinct to want to fix the problems of those I love and for whom I care and support. Like most of us, I too see the world healing and celebrating, grieving and suffering through the spinning wheels that are our Instagram and Snapchat accounts. It has become completely normalized that we critique ourselves and our progress in life to those around us. After some hours alone in my room daylight may have turned into night, but the sunset is the only thing I saw. We had one landline with a thousand-foot cord attached to a wall and it was always busy anyway. No one knew what I was up to and I do not remember feeling as if I was in a race to get better. I just missed her and needed time to forgive the world for making mine messy.

Creativity in closed spaces is where I land; creativity doesn’t have to look pretty or poised. It can look like a Barbie funeral freak show as long as we are the directors of our own script. 

***************************************************************************************

If you want to read more essays like this  Puddle Splashing is coming up on its one-year launch anniversary – you can order & purchase copies through my website and find books to purchase on Amazon and all local Madison bookstores. 

Essay Photo by Lillian Grace on Unsplash

My dad was a dentist who had the best and weirdest, and what he thought was 

private, candy drawer!!

I knew he had it. He knew I knew he had it. We never spoke of it.

Throughout my young life and into adulthood I would find my father droopy and snoring in his favorite chair, deep in REM sleep, during the night. A halo of light gently hovering over a salt and pepper head; tattered novel or newspaper diagonal on his belly threatening gravity. Crumpled wrappers from sour balls and Swedish licorice drops would be strewn about, hiding in armpit crevices and scattered all over the floor. 

     One of my favorite memories of this mediocre sugar stealth was the time I came home late from a night out during high school. I found my dad in his spot eyes, a flutter, and head topsy turvy. I sat next to him so I could finish the show he was not watching before I got tired and went to bed. He must have sensed my presence and woken up. He turned his head and looked at me and it was so obvious he had a piece of candy in his mouth. He then pretended to continue reading and ever so slightly suck on the licorice or sour ball that was living in his mouth; looking a bit like a squirrel coveting an acorn. 

     Years later when our firstborn was about five years old I found my daughter and my father snuggling together in his chair sharing a piece of candy from the said drawer. I sat down next to them as inconspicuously and gently as I could so as not to scare away the moment and the next thing I knew my dad handed me a Swedish licorice ball and smiled.

     It took 31 years and a kid but he finally shared his bounty! None of us spoke, just chewed, for a long time. (Those things take forever to disintegrate in your mouth!)

     Coming back to the present day, after a year of my primary care doc wondering if I had White Coat Syndrome I was finally diagnosed this summer with high blood pressure. Seeing a hypertension specialist for the first time is like “the marathon” of doctor appointments; this lovely, brilliant doctor asked questions, listened to years of unknown history, took readings, asked more questions, did more tests, and then concluded her detective work with one question, “Jessie, do you by any chance eat black licorice?” 

      Did I eat black licorice!?

      One thing that kept me grounded and tethered to some kind of grief recovery after my dad passed away was the taste and smell of black licorice. It became a routine where once a month I would come home to find a package on my doorstep from Florida. My best friend’s father would mail me a huge bag of black licorice and I would immediately hide it in the freezer. (Don’t ask, I had to eat licorice cold which could probably be its own essay altogether – I digress…) Every night before I would go to sleep I would eat between two and four pieces of this ebony root.  These savory, sticky moments brought me back to his chair, his quirks, his need for privacy, and many times, humor. I missed him so much and licorice gave him back to me just for a little tiny bit every night. 

     So as my eyes flooded with tears on the 2nd floor of the UW Health Preventive Cardiology Clinic I told the doctor that yes, I ate black licorice every night. She let me cry a bit and then with a tender firmness stated, “No more black licorice for you.”

      I received a notice in the mail last week from our synagogue that I had an upcoming yahrzeit for Dr. Avrom Kniaz with a date of Oct. 30th. I understand the Jewish calendar about as much as I do not understand it and though I may attend or think about him on the 30th, the 19th of October will be a day I never forget. I remember where I was sitting, I remember how the air felt on my skin, I remember how my feet felt numb when I tried to get up to walk and I remember also understanding that from that moment on I would have to find a way to keep my memories close.

     With every human connection, there are many knots and braids, so to speak, that can help keep us tied to our memories.  I may not be able to have any more black licorice drops but I have replaced them with sour balls and other hidden freezer treats so we’re all good – unless somehow medical research finds issues with sour balls then I will write another story and get back to you. 

And, may we all find a way back to those we miss; if it has to be through sugar so be it!

If you want to read more like this purchase my new book Puddle Splashing! Available right now at local Madison bookshops:

A Room of One’s Own

Mystery To Me

 And

 Puddle Splashing – Amazon

Copies of PUDDLE SPLASHING are available NOW through Amazon and coming very soon to A Room of One’s Own – please support our local, independent bookstores and reserve a copy for yourself today!!

Keep an eye out and ears open for local launch events, signings and readings!

A special thank you today to David Loeb and David Loeb Photography – taking pictures of me is about as easy and pleasant as trying to collect a family of perturbed squirrels! 

Once again – waterfalls of thank you’s go to:

Jordy Loeb – Husband/Cowboy/Father

Laurie Nagus – Editor

Jasmine Zapata – Motivational M.D. Publishing

Callan Erin – Cover Design – callanscompositions.smugmug.com/

Pegasaur Moore& Andy Moore – Forward

Georgia Rucker – Dedication Page Design

Book endorsements:

Jen Nails – One Hundred Spaghetti Strings

Samantha Lazar – Reaching Marrakesh

Barrie Dolnick – Simple Spells for Love

Ann Imig – LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER: What She Said Then, What We’re Saying Now.

Many of my beloved friends and family will find themselves tucked away in my stories…go find yourself