A Sentimental Geek
- Read today's xkcd comic.
- s/Mom/Dad
- Sad.
November 10, 2008
November 9, 2008
Obama in Nevada
Last Saturday in Las Vegas, Lynn, Lynn's Grandma, and I woke up at 5:30am to head over to neighboring Henderson for Barack Obama's last rally of the campaign. The rally was inspiring: I'd heard the words many, many times before, but I had never felt the electricity in person. We met a bunch of passionate and friendly people, each with their own story and their own reasons for wanting change.
I'm very proud of what America did this past week. I don't expect any miracles in the coming years, but I do expect a government that I can look at proudly and one from which I can expect accountability, honesty, and progress.
Please enjoy some pictures of the Henderson Obama rally.
July 24, 2008
In Cherbourg
(Last time, we were in London.)
We were supposed to spend our first full day on the cruise docking at Le Havre, in France. From there, Lynn and I were going to hop on a bus down to Paris and spend the day in the City of Lights with our good friend, Jonah. Unfortunately, French workers--as they are wont to do--were on strike at Le Havre's port, and so we were diverted to Cherbourg for the day. Oops, there goes our day in Paris. (See map.)
So we made the most of it in Cherbourg. My in-laws set out to the Musée de Normandie (Normany Museum) in Caen. Meanwhile, Marc, Louise, Lynn, and I failed to find three scooters to rent, and so we settled for four bicycles and set off along the coast. We biked for several hours, stopping frequently to take photos, eat, and enjoy the scenery. Gotta love the French seaside-shack lunch of a baguette with shaved steak, melted cheese, and the most fried french fries I've ever come across.
We headed back into town where Lynn and I dropped off our bicycles and then walked back to the ship. The rest of the day was rather uneventful; oh, except for the part where Marc and Louise got engaged. Yeah, that was pretty cool.
Please enjoy a few pictures from our day in Cherbourg.
June 10, 2008
1,461
It may as well be 20,000. Or 1. When you get right down to it, any difference is irrelevant. I miss you, Dad, and I'll always love you.
June 8, 2008
A Few Photos
In early May, Lynn and I went to Darcy and Todd's wedding in Worcester:
Over Memorial Day weekend we were at Cousins' Weekend 2008 at the Doral Arrowwood in Rye Brook, NY. I took some pictures of the fun and games.
And finally, from Passover back in April, a mug only a son-in-law could love:
January 6, 2008
Without Missing a Beat
Lynn: How long has my brother been abroad?
Lee: Hmm? He's been a guy as long as I've known him...
(Yes, I haven't blogged in a long time. A great pun is just the way to get back on the horse. Maybe.)
April 6, 2007
Passover 2007
I've got a lot of thoughts about Passover this year. Mainly, the thoughts relate to the fact that these were the first seders that Lynn and I have been to in New Jersey since Dad died. The corollary is that these were the first seders that I've ever led in Glen Rock. As I said at the seders, this is something that I never wanted to have to do. But if life teaches us anything it's that we need to be able to make the best of (really) bad situations, and with that outlook I was proud to lead the seders. People at both seders said that I did things a lot like Dad did. Of course, that's no coincidence; I learned everything from him. He was the best though, and all I can do is try to live up to his high standard.
There's a bunch more thoughts here about the composition of our seder crowds--about what's changed and what remains the same. But for now, I'd just like to share some of the pictures I took over the weekend. (I'm still learning my new camera, so the shots aren't as crisp as I'd like, and my post-processing leaves a lot to be desired. Apologies.)
Enjoy all the pictures from Passover 2007.
March 6, 2007
A Summertime Visit from Julia (August, 2006)
I have many pictures that have languished unseen for far too long. For the moment, enjoy these pictures (mostly) of Julia from the Marshalls' visit to Boston last summer. A few tastes:
Enjoy all the pictures of Julia's visit.
July 24, 2006
They win; they finally win!
This past weekend, Lynn and I went down to Jersey to spend some quality time with our families. After Lynn exerted her will through a five-hour drive filled with flash storms and miles of traffic, we met up with Lynn's Grandpa Sam, Uncle Mike, and Mom and Dad in Tarrytown. We ate Portuguese and Brazilian food at Caravela in downtown Tarrytown. (I enjoyed a decent braised veal dish served with some mashed potatoes that I suspect were not authentic but which I enjoyed very much nonetheless.)
On Saturday, the six of us who went to dinner on Friday were joined by my Mom and by Wing (who had been rendered plans-less by the immovable force of a girls' (and Jeff?) spa day) at Shea Stadium to see the Mets host the Astros. Now, if you've even read just a few weeks back in my blog, you'll know that Lynn and I have not had the best of luck recently when it comes to attending Mets games in person. And with the mysterious El Duque on the mound for the Mets against the freshly-back-from-the-DL Brandon Backe, I didn't know what to expect.
As we drove into Queens a bit after noon, it became clear that the one thing that I had not expected would be the one thing I was going to be guaranteed to get: rain. Lots of rain.
We met up with Wing and headed to our seats—but say several rows higher up so that we could be covered while we watched the tarp do its best imitation of a corpse until just about twenty minutes past scheduled game time. It was then that rain subsided, the crowd let out a roar, and we were treated to the dance of the grounds crew as they uncovered the field and prepared for the game.
Once the game got underway, our misery intensified as the Astros shelled El Duque in the first inning to the tune of three runs on two home runs. But after that, something miraculous happened: El Duque settled down, and the Mets bats came alive just enough to take a one-run lead on Xavier Nady's three-run shot in the fourth inning. And even though Wing committed baseball sacrilege by leaving before the game was over (OK, he had a good excuse and had warned me beforehand, for the record), Duaner Sanchez and Billy Wagner managed to protect the lead and give the Mets the win. Oh rapture, oh joyous day.
We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with the Marshalls, where I got a good fix of Julia time. (Julia time mostly consists of playing with a beach ball, staring at a Mets pin with glowing lights, counting to five (sometimes to ten, sometimes in Spanish) over-and-over again, and running around on the floor aimlessly. As I said on the drive back today, I wish more of my friends played the way Julia does.) We ate dinner at an Italian restaurant in Queens which apparently serves delicious pasta—I wouldn't know because I tried the porcini risotto which was mediocre at best. I should have known better when the menu spelled it "porchini."
Sunday arrived and treated me to an emotional back nine at the British Open, culminating in victory and runner-up for the two (prominent) golfers who have lost parents in recent weeks. I think it's amazing and not inaccurate to say that I can empathize with Tiger Woods about something. As he said in his victory speech following the tournament, we all have parents and for almost all of us, they mean the world to us and we miss them terribly when they're not here.
In the afternoon we visited Grandpa and Millie along with Millie's daughter Audrey and granddaughter Sarah. After a couple of hours Lynn and I said are goodbyes and got on the road back to Boston. Lynn slept most of the way and I hummed to myself and noodled on ways to implement abstract syntax tree rewriting schemes in the SPARQL engine I'm working on at work. Clearly, fun times were had by all.
You can see more pictuers from the weekend, including some pictures of Julia, a puddle, and a reservoir, in my photo album.
July 11, 2006
Meeting Halfway
For quite some time, Mom has been advocating spending a day somewhere in Connecticut halfway between Glen Rock and Brookline as a reasonable substitute for seeing each other when we can't make a full weekend work. I've admittedly been a bit hesitant to put such a plan into action, not least of all because the first time we tried this we ended up spending several hours at a crafts expo—not exactly my first choice for spending an afternoon. My other reservations came from what seemed to be Mom's primary method of figuring out where we would meet: find a point such that the driving mileage for both of us would be identical.
But for this past Sunday, not only did Mom suggest Farmington, but she also had done a good amount of research on activities in the area. And the weather looked promising. So as Lynn and I headed out west at 9:30 in the morning, I was cautiously optimistic. In retrospect, I should have dropped the "cautiously" altogether, as the day turned out to be fantastic on all fronts: weather, activities, food, and, of course, company.
After meeting up at the West Hartford Reservoir, we headed into West Hartford Center and ate brunch (eggs benedict for me, a veggie omelette for Mom, and New England red flannel hash for Lynn) on the roof deck at The Elbow Room.
After six of my eight TXT message correspondents helped me locate the phone number, address, and directions for Farmington River Tubing, we headed there. We enjoyed a peaceful two hours floating lazily down the Farmington River, at the end of which I did my part to repay Lynn for her courage the week before. You see, when we began, the only instructions we were given were that the end of the route was marked by a tube hanging from a tree, at which point we should head to the left bank of the river and climb up to the road (where a shuttle bus would take us back to our car). About 100 minutes into our tubing, Mom and I were quietly chatting and floating together, while Lynn floated slowly 15 yards behind us. We slowly came to the point of disembarkation, at which point Mom and I detubed and Mom climbed to the road while I waited for Lynn.
The thing is, Lynn was drifting extremely slowly on the far side of the river with her head tilted back and with no signs of any intention of heading towards left bank. After waiting in the thigh-high water for a few minutes, I decided that Lynn must have been fast asleep and started calling to her, at first quietly and then more and more loudly. When my sweet nothings failed to rouse her, I began to trek across the river after her. Eventually I caught up to her before she had floated much past our destination, woke her up, and towed her safely to the exit point. But if not for me, I have very little doubt that Lynn might yet still be floating in that tube somewhere out in the Connecticut River or Long Island Sound.
Once at our car, we headed back to the West Hartford Reservoir with a brief detour at a small farm stand to pick up an apple and some vidalia-onion tomato-basil dressing. At the reservoir we walked a brief ways to one of the many actual physical reservoirs on the territory, took a few pictures, and headed off to dinner.
We ate dinner at Ann Howard's Apricots, a restaurant and bar overlooking the Farmington River. We arrived early enough to have our choice of tables outside, yet late enough that as dinner progressed we were able to savor the beginnings of a beautiful sunset. The food was fantastic. Mom enjoyed a salmon filet grilled on cedar planks; Lynn savored the Chatham cod atop lemon (?) flan; and I devoured a strip steak served with a peppercorn sauce, mashed potatoes, and haricot verts. The coup de grace was the warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream, which Mom and I both decided very well may have been the single best dessert either of us has ever had in our lives. (Coming from someone who is not a big fan of overused superlatives, that's really saying something.)
We said goodbye to Mom and headed home, content, relaxed, and happy.
Enjoy all the pictures of the West Hartford Reservoir and the dinner view at Apricots.
May 4, 2006
Muriel Zuckerman, in memoriam
I wanted to write a short memorial tribute to my wife's grandma who passed away recently. She was a fiercely devoted, loyal, and proud friend and family member with a sharp wit and a smile that would melt an ice cube. After Lynn gave an impromptu, emotionally stirring and beautifully delivered eulogy at her funeral, though, I felt there was nothing more for me to say (and, unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to share Lynn's words with those not at the funeral service).
Last night, though, Lynn told me about a conversation she had with her grandpa. and the message resonated strongly with my own philosophies and, indeed, with the sated goal of my blog. He said:
Lynn, enjoy all of the moments that you and Lee spend together becase in the end, all that you have left are the memories. And after 61 years, it hurts so much more because I have so many good memories.
We miss you.
April 14, 2006
Holiday Tradition
From the category of strangest holiday traditions ever comes my father-in-law's time-honored Passover tradition. Most of my non-Jewish friends fail to understand why Jews would willingly eat—and enjoy—gefilte fish, but such a tame act pales in comparison with this.
My father-in-law likes. to. drink. all. the. jelly. from. the. gefilte. fish. jar.
March 17, 2006
The Best Reason To Have Kids?
This morning, Lynn and I were driving from New Jersey out to Queens to visit Mom, Aunt Karen, Scott, Randi, and Julia. As we were driving by Shea Stadium on the Grand Central Parkway, the following conversation ensued:
Lynn: Let's go to Shea!
Lee: I don't think they'd let us in—.
Lynn: But I want to run the bases!
Lee: There probably aren't even any bases setup right now...
Lynn: When we have kids, we're going to bring them to do the Mets's [Dynamets] Dash.
(moment of silence)
Lynn: Will they let me run the bases with our kids?
Lee: Probably only if the kids are younger than a certain age.
Lynn: Well, then we're just going to have to continuously have kids so that we always have one young enough for me to run the bases with!
(I didn't point out to Lynn that she'd have a hard time enjoying her base-running perks if she's continuously pregnant.)
December 6, 2005
A Tardy Thanksgiving Report
The problem with trying to maintain a blog is that sometimes you just don't finish entries in a timely fashion. Exhibit A, your honor:
We enjoyed a gastronomic feast at the Zuckerman's home in Wyckoff yesterday on Thursday the other week, featuring:
- Assorted crackers with blocks of Swiss, cheddar, and Monterey Jack cheese
- Tortilla chips with a cheese-salsa dip
- Assorted veggies with a southwestern ranch dip
- Baked Brie
- Other dippables: hummus, baba ganoush, and tuna & cannellini bean dip
- Chicken wings
- Eggplant rollatini
- Oven-roasted turkey stuffed with an onion and herb stuffing
- Gravy from pan drippings
- Cranberry sauce
- Spinach soufle
- Sweet-potato pudding
- Homemade corn-bread stuffing
- Sweet and sour meatballs
- Cornish hens
- Ribollita
- Steamed asparagus
- Apple crisp
- Pumpkin pie
- Strawberry-rhubarb pie
- Vanilla ice cream
- Assorted candies and cookies
Following the food and festivities, the fine folks at CSI treated us to a Thanksgiving Day episode specifically designed to make us regret every single ounce of chow that we'd spent the day enjoying. The episode featured a poor man who suffered from Prader-Willi Syndrome, who escaped from his (temporary) caretaker and literally ate himself to death. The show, of course, shunned explanations that Prader-Willi goes hand-in-hand with levels of mental retardation in favor of gruesome autopsies and montages of the victim gorging at a buffet, competitive eating contest, and in the dumpster where he lost his life. Truly an hour of television carefully scripted to air on Thanksgiving night. I caught a re-run of a season one or two CSI episode a few days ago, and what struck me as surprising was that the team was investigating two run-of-the-mill murders. There were no rare diseases, no insect evidence, and no kinky sex acts involved. Somehow, investigation, forensics, and deductions (not to mention the requisite musical lab segment and eyestrain-inducing lighting) managed to create an engaging and entertaining episode. I do think that CSI is still one of the best shows on television today, but it's a bit of a shame that any subtlety or simplicity has long since been thrown to the wind.
Life is a long journey full of peaks and valleys, and we all learn at different times to appreciate the peaks and to weather the valleys. Life knocks us down and we get back up swinging; life lifts us up and we strive to cherish the moment. This year, though, I'm thankful for all those days when life simply looks the other way. The weeks when I wake up next to my wonderful wife, go to work with intelligent and witty people who are also my friends, create good times with high school and college friends who I must have known since ages past, watch my niece learn to say "boobies," and share in the warmth of two loving families. It's easy to celebrate the momentous occasions, but it's more important to learn to love the mundane things that make life worthwhile. Happy December, everyone.
September 19, 2005
No One Deserves Lung Cancer
My sister, Randi, is a lot more gifted with words than with web design. From No One Deserves Lung Cancer:
Last June, my father died at the age of 56 after a nearly two-year battle with lung cancer. His story challenges the very fundamental perceptions people have of lung cancer patients.
For Dad
The stated purpose of my blog is true, but while composing it I realized who the single best target member of my audience would be: Dad.
I could always tell Dad any little thing--no matter how whimsical or irrelevant--and he would listen and reply with unbounded and genuine interest and enthusiasm. During the sporadic days of my old web log and sports log, Dad was my single biggest inspiration for writing. I could always count on receiving an email response from him the same day that I would post. These weren't single-line responses either; they were well thought out comments, discussions, and questions on whatever arbitrary topic I had written about.
Anyway, because he would have enjoyed reading this blog as much as anyone, I'm dedicating this blog to Dad. I wrote the following about three weeks after Dad died last year, and it captures many of my feelings about Dad:
Always There
"Always there." Two little words, but together they speak volumes about the
person that my Dad, Steve Feigenbaum, was. Within those words are Dad's
soaring passions, his fierce loyalties, his sparkling smile, and his
endless love. Dad taught me innumerable things in the times we shared, but
perhaps most of all he taught me that an openhearted life of "always there"
can yield untold vigor and joy for many, many people.
What does it mean to live a life of "always there?" For Dad, it meant that in
all aspects of his life, from day-to-day minutiae to long-term outlooks and
plans, he always knew, expressed, and acted on exactly what he wanted and what
was best for the people he loved. It was very difficult to know my Dad a little
without knowing him a lot. His energy and warmth would draw people close, and,
once close, Dad's true self was always there. He never minced words, and he
lay bare his soul for all who would get close to see, to enjoy, and to learn
from.
You need only have met my Dad on any August day to know the passion for the
Mets or his hatred for the Yankees that would gnaw at him one day only to
invigorate him the next. Chance to call on a Friday or Saturday night in the
fall or winter and you'd learn of his ardor for Penn basketball. All was not
lost should your call go unanswered, as Dad's musical love and talent was
evident in his rendition of a rewritten version of "Blue Moon" on our
answering machine. Dad's passions were definitely always there.
Dad was always there to answer questions, no matter how trivial, or to hear
stories, no matter how irrelevant. He'd stop everything he was working on in
the middle of tax season to talk to me on the phone, and regardless of whether
I wanted to ask him an accounting question for a friend, chat about the latest
Mets game, or discuss plans for an upcoming vacation, he was happy to oblige
and indulge. And yet, he was always there for his clients as well, working
late into those cold winter nights, dotting every 'I' and crossing every 'T',
caring about their livelihoods and their lives, right up until his final days.
I doubt that any of Dad's many, many friends and family members have ever
known someone who would take as forthright an interest in the smallest details
of their lives as Dad did.
Dad's Judaism was always there throughout his life. His uncomplicated and
unchanging beliefs taught me the warmth and joy that can come from Jewish
traditions. I could always look to Dad as my model for dovening in shul,
leading Friday night Kiddush and Ha'motzi, and singing melodious haftarahs.
The perfect Passover Seders that Mom organized would never have been complete
without Dad joyfully leading them. Passover will never, ever, be the same
without Dad. Of all the religious traditions that I learned from Dad,
duchening impacted me the most. I will never lose my memories of standing on
the bimah and chanting the priestly blessing, together, with Dad always there
at my side.
Growing up, Dad was always around to share good times with. I couldn't begin
to count the number the number of tennis matches, croquet games, aerodarts
games, leaf races, or simple games of catch that he played with me during the
summers in the Catskills. Our vacations in the Caribbean were filled with
great times, and when Mom and Randi wanted to ride Space Mountain at
Disney World but I was too afraid, Dad was always there to ride the good ol'
People Mover with me, again and again.
One tiny incident from my childhood stands out. Near the end
of my brief and unspectacular little league experience, I found more and more
that as I stood in the outfield during twilight games I had trouble picking up
the ball off the bat. I told Dad this, and I have vivid memories of seeing my Dad
trot out along the left field line to stand 50 feet away from me to help me know
when the ball was headed my way. It probably seemed frustrating,
insignificant, and embarassing at the time, but remembering it today fills me
with overwhelming gratitude and longing for Dad.
How can a world function without someone who was always there? I can't imagine
existing without Dad's presence as a rock-steady anchor in my life. How can Dad
not be around to discuss the Mets? How can Dad not be working late at the
office on a cold March night? How can Dad not be leading a Passover Seder?
These questions seem the height of absurdity to me, yet they are the impossible
truth that we face now. I know that many people who I love very much believe
that Dad is still always there, watching and enjoying all of the lives of his
beloved friends and family. I do not know if this is so, though I hope so
dearly. What I do know, is that I owe Dad what little I can do to be an "always
there" presence for the people I love. I'll also make sure to cherish and
share all my love and memories of Dad. In these ways, at least, Dad will truly
always be there.
Lee Feigenbaum
July 1, 2004