Yeah, I’m back, it’s been a while.  Love left me unable to concentrate (but I had a few bars of chocolate) for a while.  Good to be 80 days in and back on track.

My mother loved Roald Dahl.

My mother used to say we were poor.  But the term is relative. We were poor in Normandy Park.  Poor in Normandy Park meant you grew up in your Grandmother’s (Bubbie to me) house (ever seen Neil Simon meets Woody Allen)  with a pool membership.  Poor in Normandy Park meant you went without the latest Normandy Rose Jeans or those pants with the ice cream cones.

Later,  it meant you didn’t get the same year’s Guess jean jacket. It meant  your mother was putting herself through the UW to make a better life for you and your sister. All from the comforts of  an extremely upper middle class neighborhood.  Then there was the fact that you were always going to be Judge Borawick’s grand-daughter with all the bad that entailed.

But we lived well. In fact, I remember my mom looking for teaching jobs in Israel (her biggest dream was to make Aliya). She used to  say,  “They just don’t pay enough”.  Sometimes she’d get depressed. Then she would pull out “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”.

It’s the first book I remember her reading to us.  She read it to us in the trailer park off highway 99. My dad left us there like white trash.  Almost until the day my mom died,  she couldn’t go back there.  But we did once,  before she died.  She told me, “Even if you end up here, never forget to look for the golden ticket”.

I don’t think she ever got over living in a trailer. It was her lowest of the lows.
As an adult, I never got over Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  It always gave me hope.  My grandparents were never 4 in a bed (maybe in Lithuania or Podhayce) but not in Normandy Park.  Even now, when I think of how bad things can get, I never think that my kid’s birthday comes down to a chocolate bar.  Somethings change.

The last month has been really hard, money wise. The most basic things Oren was paying  for, he no longer does.  For the second time in my life, I asked others to help me get through the month.

I find myself asking why do the working class (feels like I’ve become the working poor) have to struggle so much.  Why do we have to search for Golden Tickets.

In truth, there are no Golden Tickets, no Willie Wonka, nobody to save us.  We must save ourselves. We must teach our children to save themselves.  But when I lie down at night, next to my two golden tickets, I feel like I’ve failed. But I know if I teach them to shine like gold, nothing can stop them.

“A child that reads,  is a child that can succeed” Janice Borawick (Z”L of loving memory)