A Very Long Distance Birthday Greeting

It was an unfamiliar ringtone. I was expecting two early morning phone calls. From my daughters, Boston and Los Angeles. I knew when I picked up the phone, instead of “hello,” I’d be treated to choruses of “Happy Birthday To You.”

But this ringtone announced neither my daughter Faith (Piano Riff) or Jill (Pinball). It sounded familiar; something heard long ago. From my childhood?


Yes, that was it! “Bei Mir Bist Du Schon” being sung in Yiddish by the Andrew Sisters. A 1940s hit for Jews. I certainly hadn’t assigned that ring to any in my contact list. It wasn’t an option on my iPhone and the tune wasn’t listed in my iTunes library, so how could it attach itself to a caller?





And then I remembered my iPhone’s special abilities. It could relay phone calls between Heaven and Earth. Sure enough, calling me on my phone’s Conference Call feature, were my long-deceased parents, Irv and Min Shapiro, major characters in my memoir, “The Division Street Princess.”

I put my ear to the phone and as the Andrew Sisters wound up, I heard my mother and father belting out, “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you.” They weren’t half bad.

Before I could respond, my mother jumped in, “We knew you’d be up early, so we wanted to be the first to call.”

“Hi Princess,” it was my dad. “Surprised?’

“That’s hardly the word,” I said. My delight prevented tears.

“We’re so proud of you,” they said in unison. To myself I thought, how nice to hear them agreeable. When alive, their frequent tiffs made the child I was quite unhappy.

“First it was the memoir,” Dad said. “And now your retail job. Just like at Irv’s Finer Foods. Remember your cigar box register?”


“How could I forget?” I answered. “I was so full of myself waiting on customers in my sundries section. I can still see little me holding that box as if it were a treasure chest.”

“I wish you didn’t have to stand on your feet all day.” It was Mother. I recalled she hadn’t been that crazy about wearing an apron or standing behind a counter in our grocery store. She believed the stained cloth disguised her glamour. But that could never happen. Not with her blue eyes, raven hair, costume jewelry, and high-heeled shoes.

“It’s not so bad,” I said. “I can wear my running shoes.”

“Hmmph,” from Mother. “You look like a kid in that outfit,” she said. “They couldn’t let you wear a dress? Why a t-shirt?”

“It’s all about the logo and a feeling of casual and comfort in the store,” I explained.

I couldn’t see her expression (FaceTime was still being worked on up there), but I imagined a roll of those beautiful blues.

“I see how you ring things up on that gadget you keep in your pocket,” Dad said. “Quite impressive.”

From Mom, “It wasn’t impressive I could pencil a customer’s order on a brown paper bag? Add it up in my head? That wasn’t impressive?”

“Sweetheart,” Dad started.

I interrupted. “No, no, of course. You were amazing, Mom. I remember standing at the counter next to you, wondering if I’d ever be as smart as you.”


“And I never went beyond Tuley High School,” Mother said. “Imagine if I had your education, Elaine.”

“What about me?” Dad asked. “Grammar school was it. I had to go to work…”

I felt those old vibrations and jumped in. “You were both spectacular,” I said. Now came the tears. “I can’t thank you enough for all you've given me. You made me who I am today.”


Calm on the other end. Then, together, “And, it wouldn’t hurt your daughters to give us a call now and then. They’ve got iPhones.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “The minute I hang up, I’ll let them know the lines are open. Expect their calls.”

“Don’t forget Princess,” Dad said. “Have a Happy Birthday.”

“Of course,” Mom added. “Why does she think we called?”

Still working, after all these years

Startled, I woke to find my iPad lighting up and levitating. That could only mean one thing. One of my parents, in their 24/7 heavenly abodes, was trying to reach me.

I sat up, unplugged the device from its charger, rested it on my knees, and opened its lime green magnetic cover. Sure enough, via FaceTime, it was my father.

“I tried to reach Ronnie first to congratulate him,” Dad said, “but I don’t think he’s got his WiFi connected yet.”

How I love FaceTime and its ability to display visages of callers -- no matter their celestial locale.

“Did you hear? Ronnie’s sold seven Toyota's, and he’s been working at the dealership less than a month,” Dad said. My father’s face was beaming nearly as much as my Apple device.

For this morning’s phone call, Dad elected to show his circa 1950’s face. That’s the one he wore after he sold the grocery store and was working as a salesman for a meat company. He wore three-piece suits to work -- no more bloody aprons -- a classic Stetson, and his black hair and mustache were slick and neat.

I was about to agree with Dad’s enthusiasm over my brother’s feat, when the FaceTime screen suddenly split in two and up popped Mom’s face.

“What’s so great about him still working in his 70’s?” Mom said. She looked as pretty as ever and like Dad, she had shucked her store apron and was garbed in a shirtwaist dress and high heels -- her attire post-store when she was a switchboard operator at American Linen Supply.

“He should be relaxing on some beach, playing golf, enjoying life, not working 9 to 5," she said. Now, the smile and screen dimmed.

I heard Dad sigh, so I took over. “Hi, Mom,” I said. “I’m still working in my 70’s, too. Both Ronnie and I have been forced to keep going because the economy hurt both of us.”

A laugh from Dad. “Hah, knowing you two, I don’t see a beach in your future. Admit it, you and your brother like working. You like keeping busy, earning a paycheck, kibitzing with coworkers and customers. Don’t tell me different,” he said. “I remember you two in the store. You loved helping out.”

Now it was Mom’s turn to sigh. “Loved? What was there to love? Slaving all day behind a counter. Watching our customers go across the street to the supermarket while they had debts with us? What was fun about that?”

“Look at all the odd jobs our kids had,” Dad said in profile to Mom. “That proves they were hard workers. Remember Sammy’s Red Hots for Ronnie, and his Hawaiian photography business?”

Mom gave a harrumph. “Don’t forget your daughter’s Gap and Apple sidetracks,” she said. “Although I do like these goodies she sent us from the Apple store.” My iPad momentarily rose as I imagined my mother holding it aloft for emphasis.

“Can I speak?” I interrupted. “You’re right. Ronnie and I did inherit some of your entrepreneurial spirit. So maybe we do like working rather than relaxing.”

I saw Dad shake his head. “Oy,” he said, putting a palm to his face. “Even though you say you enjoy working, it’s hard to see you two hit by a rotten economy, just like we were in the ‘40s. Outside forces...”

Mom interrupted. “Outside forces, shmoutside forces. Irv, you're forever blaming supermarkets for our store's collapse. Sure, some of the problems we can blame on them, but give it up already. Admit it - you were a lousy manager."

Dad looked sheepish. He was likely recalling the time spent in the pool hall rather than in the back of the store paying bills.

"And the bookies?" she continued. I stopped her there.

"Listen you two, you're wasting battery life bickering. Let's just call it a draw. You're both right; forces beyond our control bounced Ronnie and me back to the workplace. But, I'm sure he'll admit nothing feels better than making a sale. And I'll own up to delight in scoring a new client. Satisfied?"

Smiles from both. And with that, my iPad's screen faded and my parents disappeared.

Lying back on the pillow, I fell quickly back to sleep. Or…

This Doc brings buried pages back to life

While I have great admiration for docs in the medical field, the Doc in this title refers to a favored site in technology. Specifically, Google Docs, which I've found to have awesome talents in resuscitating expired pages.
I've told you earlier I already use Google Docs to save (note the medical continuity) all the writing I don't want to lose to a natural or klutzy disaster. I also appreciate the fact that my words are resting comfortably in a cloud, so when I'm away from home, I can still access everything I've got stored on my personal Google Docs page.

And, if I wanted you to have a look-see at any of my documents or to edit something I've written (not bloody likely), I can tell Google my intentions and you would get an e-mail and a password to unlock my page.


But that's not our lesson for today. In 2000, I wrote an essay about my tattoo. Since the mark still elicits curiosity, I'd like to give you a chance to read it today. I could send it as a Word attachment, but because I'd like it viewed by the wider world (a clue!), I need a different solution.

Enter Google Docs. I open my stored Word document, copy (not upload because then I wouldn't be able to edit it) and past it into a new Google document. I click on Share, select Publish as a web page, and violà! So, here's My Tattoo, alive and well, which you can read at your leisure.

The trick also works for blogger writers who want to revive an archived post that no longer is isolated on its own page and thus can't be captured with a Web address. For further reading, travel back to April 10, 2006 when Tom McNamee of the Chicago Sun-Times gave my memoir, "The Division Street Princess" its biggest boost. See? A little CPR; heartbeats.

My beloved Apple uses its MobileMe program to perform similar miracles. But as reported in a earlier post, it costs $99 annually. In my judgment, Google Docs does it better, and for free. But don't settle for my view, if you want a second opinion, just be sure it's covered by your insurance.