the Good Luck Twins

My sister and I are not twins. We are about 20 months apart in age, at least 3 sizes apart in clothing and 2 1/2 inches apart in height. I was born in Arkansas; she, in New York. I'm older, taller, bigger and louder; my brown eyes look nothing like her green ones. And yet, people have recently mistaken me for Susan when spotting me bringing her son to school, or buying my niece a pastry in Penn Station.

Susan and I always wished we could have shared a bedroom, but we grew up each with a big bedroom of our own, adjacent to but completely separate from our sister. It was one of many ways our parents managed to keep us very much apart.

I'm thinking about this because I got the following text from my New York City sister while I was drinking my morning coffee, back home in Cincinnati:

"I know where our luck came from this weekend. Abraham Lincoln said "A house divided against itself cannot stand." This is what the adults in our family have tried to perpetuate. Our being friends and openly, honestly communicating about our family dynamic strengthens us and weakens their strategy and the hold they've had on us."

Indeed.

Susan and I just had an extraordinary weekend together. I have never felt so close to her, or felt so much joy in our unique bond. Because it belonged only to the two of us, from Friday evening until Monday morning, the weekend was unprecedented. No work, no school, no appointments, no boyfriends, no husbands, and none of our five children - literally, nothing and nobody to interrupt or distract us from doing just what we pleased.

What we observed from the start was that we were enjoying exceptionally good luck. As she observed Saturday morning, in temple, when we were discussing the torah portion, in which the hungry Israelites are confronted with the appearance of manna, we don't know how long the miracle it will last, which makes it that much more precious. We began noticing our good luck by nabbing two last minute tickets to an amazing show at Lincoln Center that was sold out for its entire run. It was so full of familiar family dynamics that it almost seemed to have been written just for us.

We had the same luck the following night, getting rush tickets, discounted this time, to see Daniel Kitson's sold out show at St Ann's Warehouse in Brooklyn. This was a bit less of a coup, only in that we were not nearly as well entertained, but we would never had known that had we not scored last minute seats in the front row. Before the show, even though the maitre d' at Superfine was clearly offended that we dared walk into his establishment without a reservation, we got the one and only unreserved table for dinner, without any wait. And afterwards, our friend, Philip found an unbelievably sweet parking spot in the heart of Soho, right near Rice to Riches, where we went for dessert. Two guys in the bar window next to us, noticing our good timing, both gave us the thumbs up.

We decided to push our luck by asking our father to spend the day with us on Sunday. I calculated that it had been over 35 years since he had taken us both out, without our mother or anyone else around. Before we were big enough to become busy with music lessons, tennis matches or homework, Daddy had taken us on a short series of double dinner dates at local Massapequa eateries: Arthur Treacher's, where we discovered tartar sauce, and Jade Garden, where we had our first paper umbrella embellished soft drinks.

I had ceased spending time with my parents several years ago, finding it more than sufficient to see them only at bar mitzvahs and funerals. This weekend, my mother and aunt were occupied with sorting their late mother's personal property in preparation to clear it out of her apartment, which seems poised to go to contract, 9months after her death. My father could have spent the day hovering over them, but we made him a better offer, inviting him to take a tour with us at the Tenement Musuem on the lower east side, and learn in detail about a Jewish family who immigrated from Russia to live, work, raise their kids in a 325 square foot second floor apartment.

After that tour, Daddy led us to the Eldridge Street Synagogue, which he remembered visiting 30 years earlier, when it was in severe disrepair. We walked in just in time to join an hour-long tour, where we saw the fruits of an 18 million dollar restoration project and learned the history of the place and its congregation from a Romanian historian who lives on the very same block in Brooklyn where our mother lived as a child. Susan is planning to take her kids back to Eldgridge Street next weekend for a Tu B'shevat party.

As we strolled to Katz's deli for lunch, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to inquire as to the new location of il laboratorio di gelato, which used to be right next to the tenemnet musuem. I quickly facebook messaged my friend Michael, who messaged me back, without delay, that it was now right across the street from Katz's. How perfect! Lunch was not only historic but delicious; when my father repeatedly shushed me and scolded me, I found it almost effortless not to respond. The waitress recognized Daddy from many visit without us and took a marvelous photo of the three of us sitting together at our table.

We continued to notice our good luck as we repeatedly made immediate connections on the subway, whether we were switching from crosstown to downtown trains, or from express to local ones, despite it being the weekend, and despite the extensive construction supposedly disrupting the service so terribly.

Just as we walked outside Monday morning, we spotted the M60 bus, which runs every 15minutes to LaGuardia airport, two blocks away and coming toward us. I hopped on, waving good-bye to my sister, only to find that my luck was continuing in spades: arriving early at the aiport, I was switched to an earlier flight, boarded immediately, to maximize my chances of getting out of O'Hare which was currently closed due to a snowstorm. In my rush to get through security, I realized as I boarded, I had left behind a hand painted one-of-a-kind silk scarf, which my friend, Meg, had just given to me for my birthday. Why they had me remove it I will never understand, but I told the flight attendant what had happened as I stepped aboard. The co-pilot sprang up from his seat, asked which security station I had passed though, and raced out to retrieve it for me as the plane continued to board. How often, I ask, does this happen to you?

The flight attendant who returned my scarf to me, in my extra legroom seat behind the galley, became my newest best friend, brainstorming with me during the flight how I might reach the celebrity market with fancynancypants, thus enabling me to charge enough per pair to make it into a viable business. She gave me her card as I deplaned and we have already exchanged emails.

Despite my premonition last week that one of my flights would be cancelled, possibly leaving me stranded somewhere along my return journey - despite hearing, as I crossed through O'Hare, many thwarted travellers scrambling to rent cars, I beat the odds, arriving home only 25 minutes after I was originally scheduled to do.

There was no snow on my car when I found it in the economy lot. It started up as easily if had just been parked in a warm garage. I drove home without incident to be warmly welcomed by pets and family members, in time to make dinner and hear Sam have a great piano lesson. The laundry had been done in my absence and was folded into lovely neat piles on the living room couches. The kids bathed themselves and went to bed on time. Max surprised me by coming home from his father's (I wasn't expecting to see him until after school today) and visiting with us very pleasantly before turning in for the night.

I wonder: what else I shall attempt while my good luck holds up?