Telling Stories

Flashback:

It is March, 1958, and my father is taking my picture outside.  I am wearing my blue dress coat and my Purim costume.  As always, I am dressed as Queen Esther, the beautiful heroine of the Purim story.  Queen Esther saved the Jewish people of Shushan, Persia, when she foiled the plot of the evil Haman, adivsor to King Ahasuerus.  She did so by becoming the wife of  the King and then revealing to him that she was Jewish.  When the King realized that Haman's plans to kill all the Jews would result in the death of his  beloved Esther, he put a stop to the plans, and executed Haman instead.

Purim is a joyous holiday.  It is celebrated with costumes, a carnival, and hamentaschen, a triangular filled cookie, said to be shaped like Haman's hat. Best of all, when the Purim story is read in the synagogue, the children are encouraged to make as much noise as possible, booing and shaking groggers (noisemakers) to drown out the name of the evil Haman, whenever it is mentioned.

The Purim story is captivating, but it is a fairy tale.  There are other stories that captivate me more.  These stories transport me to another time and place.

There are the stories my grandmother tells, of life in the Ukraine in the early 1900's, gathering berries in her pinafore in the Spring, and staying inside for months through the long cold winter.  She tells of the relatives she left behind, of how they were never heard from again after one pogrom or another.  She tells of her life as a teenager on the lower East Side of New York.  She talks with pride of her work as a seamstress, and laughs that her parents thought she was an old maid because she didn't marry until she was 23.

There are the stories my Mother tells about growing up in Depression Era Hartford.  She talks of their tiny apartment, where she lacked privacy because she slept in the living room.  She talks about owning two outfits, when one was being washed she wore the other, and about  walking to girl scouts in shoes that were too tight.  But she also talks of playing with the other kids in the apartment building when it rained, and that  she was chosen to play Goldilocks in the school play because of her beautiful strawberry blond hair.

I love these stories because they are larger than the facts they convey.  They tell of finding the strength to go on, of finding happiness in unexpected places, of the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living.  I know that one day my story will be a part of these stories, part of our family history, and I feel proud.

Flashforward:

It is March 7, 2012, and once again, it is Purim.  I consider going to the synagogue to hear the Purim story.  Although it is a holiday with large appeal to children, I have often gone to hear the story since my children have been fully grown.  At times, I had been motivated to go because I gave a ride to a disabled adult in our community, who had become a friend, but she passed on several years ago.  At times, my husband and I drove up to Newton, Mass, to attend the service with our grandchildren, but John's work schedule does not allow that this year.  I consider going just to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, and to hear the story once again.  This year however, I have an opportunity to hear other stories, stories that will captivate me more.  I choose to take advantage of that opportunity, and get ready to attend our monthly writer's group meeting at the Town and County Club.

The Town and County Club provides a unique opportunity for cultural enrichment for women in the Hartford area.  It's activities include luncheon and dinner speakers, musical presentations, discussion groups on books and current events,  foreign language conversation groups, and trips to museums and historical sites.  It's members come from many backgrounds, and articulately express a wide range of views on any subject.

Of all of these activities, I especially look forward to the writer's group, and to the stories that the women will tell.  These stories transport me to other times and places.

On this night, I hear the story of a young couple in Depression Era Nebraska, gamely trying to start a new business.  I hear the story of a widow in Virginia during the Civil War, and her struggle to keep her farm going and to keep her children alive.  I am transported to a town in England, where a young American boy tries to fit into a new culture, and to the home of an aging couple, trying to adjust to retirement.  On this night I am given a window into personal stories: the story of a woman who reaches out to help others by bringing her dog on visits to a nursing home, and the story of a mature woman recalling family gatherings of her childhood.  I tell the story of one Passover, when many of the guests made an effort to attend, despite suffering from assorted maladies at the time.

The stories are endless, stories of lives well lived, of struggles to get by, and struggles to understand, of triumphs large and small.  The stories reflect the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living.  I know that my stories are now a part of these stories, part of the history of these diverse American women, and I  feel proud.

The People I Never Thanked - The Red Headed Girl

Flashback: It is April of 1957, and I am in second grade in East Hartford Connecticut, seated at the lunch table in the school cafeteria. Each lunch table is long enough for the whole class, with benches on each side, like a long picnic table. We are free to arrange ourselves along the table in any order we choose, and we are usually able to sit near a friend. On this particular day, I am sitting next to my new friend. She is fair skinned, with freckles, and bright red hair. She wears bangs, but her hair looks untended, shoulder length, and a little scraggly. To my eye, her clothes seem a little shabby. She, however, doesn't seem to notice. She is always smiling, she is confident, she is fun to be with, and I am glad she is my friend.

Although I sometimes buy my lunch, on this particular day, I have brought lunch. In fact, I am bringing my lunch for the entire week, because it is Passover. As usual, my lunch consists of a sandwich, but during this week, my sandwich is made of Matzah. Matzah, or unleavened bread, is like a large cracker. It is eaten during Passover to represent the unleavened bread that the Israelites ate when they hastily fled Egypt to gain their freedom, without having time for their bread to rise. During this week, the eating of bread, or any product made directly from flour, is forbidden, although the Matzah itself may be crushed into a meal and used for baking.

For lunches, my Mother makes a sort of roll from Matzah Meal and eggs, but I find it indigestible. I prefer to have my sandwiches on Matzah. This is a little problematic for my mother, because a Matzah sandwich needs to be made from something that will stick to the Matzah, not the bologna or tuna fish that my mother usually used for my sandwiches. Although peanut butter and jelly would be the perfect combination, I am allergic to peanut butter. Thus, on this particular day, I am happily eating a Matzah and jelly sandwich for my lunch. I am happy because it is Passover (a joyous holiday which I love), because I am sitting with my friend, and because my friend has taken an interest in my special sandwich.

This happiness, however, is abruptly interrupted, as the principal walks by, stops at our table, and harshly says to me, "Why are you eating your dessert before your lunch?" I am stricken with fear and embarrassment. What can I say? He clearly does not know about Matzah, Passover, or the 5,000 years of Jewish history that have led me, a seven year old, to be eating a Matzah sandwich in an East Hartford school in 1957.

In an instant, I picture myself in trouble, in the principal's office, waiting for my parents to come and give the explanation. In an instant, I know that I am in the right, that he is wrong and ignorant, but I am tongue-tied, afraid of this large and powerful man. I am aware that he is tall, with olive skin and dark hair, and I am small and pale. My very blondness makes me feel more frail. I feel no hatred for this man. Having grown up in East Hartford, where the Jewish population is small, I have no expectation that the people around me will be familiar with Judaism. In an instant, however, I feel frustration at a system that would allow a foolish and ignorant man to become the principal. Too much is going through my mind for me to speak, but, in an instant, my friend speaks for me. With her confident smile, she looks at the principal and says, simply, "It's not dessert, it's Matzah." "Oh", he replies, and walks away.

How amazing! My friend is truly an amazing person! She is my champion, and the champion of Jews everywhere, even though she isn't Jewish! She was not even trying to be brave, she simply was brave. I marvel that despite her scraggly hair and shabby clothes, she is so confident with grown-ups. I vow at that instant never again to cower in fear and embarrassment at being Jewish, or at engaging in any Jewish practice. I vow that from that day forward, if anyone questions me on Jewish practice I will simply smile and explain it. I will do this for my entire life, and I will do it in honor of my brave friend.

Flashforward:

It is 2004, and for the last 15 years I have been working in a law firm with roots going back to the mid 1800's. The firm is sometimes referred to as a "white shoe" firm, meaning it has existed since the days, perhaps in the early 1900's, when men wore white shoes. By 2004, I am a partner in the firm. Before preparing the annual calendar for partner's meetings, the managing partner calls me to ask about the dates of Jewish holidays. I give him the information he requires, and any other explanations he may want. I am seen as the firm's resident expert in Judaism. Because of my red headed friend, I have never shied away from explaining what the holidays are about or when they take place. Thank you, my red headed friend, who, by example, gave me a voice that allowed me to be myself in all aspects of American life.

Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful - A Rosh Hashanah Reflection

The other day an old friend, with whom I was having dinner, told me approvingly that I didn't look like I had Parkinson's disease. She meant well, trying to give me a compliment, I guess, as many others have in the past. But the truth is, it struck me the wrong way. After all, what's wrong with having Parkinson's Disease? Often, if I'm having tremors, or difficulty moving, spilling my soup, or using my cane, I do look like I have Parkinson's disease, but who cares? Not me! And neither, I don't think, does God.

Which brings me to my Rosh Hashanah reflection. Rosh Hashanah is a communal holiday in that the community prays and celebrates together, but it is also a very personal holiday. It's personal in that it's incumbent on us all to reflect on the past year, on what we did wrong, on what we did right, on our blessings, on our sorrows, on how we can begin again, and do our best. In short, we all get a fresh start, a new beginning, a chance to do better. In Hebrew the word "t'shuvah" is used to mean that we can turn around, turn towards a better path. We also pray, metaphorically, for God to inscribe us for a good and a sweet year in the book of life. We recognize that it is up to God to decide who will live and who will die, who will prosper, and who will be poor, who will lie in a bed of pain, and who will get well from an illness. But however harsh God's decree, we acknowledge that it can be tempered by repentance, prayer and charity.

I needed to do a little research to apply these concepts to my current situation. After all, I wanted to know, how can I promise to do better, when I'm often too tired to do much of anything? How can I expect a good year, when my medical prognosis is that I'll get worse. How can I expect a sweet year, when I know I'll often be in pain. How can I repent, when I have an excuse for spending most of my energy on myself. What can I pray for, when the state of my health is a forgone conclusion. How can charity make a difference for me?

The Torah teaches us that God's law is within the reach of us all, not far away up in the heavens where we cannot reach. Sure enough, once I started looking, I found my answers right at my finger tips, on my I-phone. With the help of Google, the wisdom of many Rabbis and thinkers, the wisdom of the ages, was available to me in a few moments. There I found the answers to my questions.

First, as the prayer book says, God does not expect us all to be Moses, only to be the best person we are capable of being. I can do that. Even when I'm feeling stiff and out of sorts, I can try to be a better listener. I can be more loving to my family and friends who have been so wonderful in supporting me. I can try to be less judgmental, and more compassionate to

others. In short, there are lots of ways that I can try to do better that don't require me to move much, or be active, or to give up my afternoon naps.

Second, I can have a good and sweet year by opening my heart to the beauty and joy that surrounds us. Judaism teaches us to recite a blessing for every occurrence, even difficult ones. There are blessings for various times of day, for various types of food, for beholding natural beauty, and just for waking up in the morning. In fact, there is even a blessing to recite upon seeing a deformed or handicapped person, "Blessed art thou, Oh Lord our God, who creates diversity." So I guess its okay to see myself as just another of God's wonders, cane, tremors and all. (Or, as my husband says "Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful"). More importantly, it's important for me to open up my eyes and my heart to see the wonders all around me: our beautiful earth, the delicious and plentiful food we enjoy, the care and affection I receive from my beloved family and friends. That's an awful lot of goodness, and even sweetness, for me to enjoy, despite a few aches and pains and inconveniences.

Third, to the extent that I may be subject in the upcoming year to a little bit of harshness, I can make it better by repentance prayer and charity. I can make my life better by repenting in the true sense of "t'shuvah", by changing course, by being thankful for my many blessings instead of focusing on my problems. Prayer can remind me to do this. The Jewish prayer book is full of praise and blessings for God's many wonders. By praying, I can remind myself of the splendor of the universe and the joy one can get from a lovely day or a pretty flower, or the sweetness of a child's kiss. Charity can help me get my mind off myself, by reaching out to those with bigger problems than I have. Even with the problems I have reaching, I can still reach as far as my checkbook, and that can help a lot of people in need.

So I guess I've got my work cut out for me this High Holiday Season, as always, but with the same opportunities as everyone else to make this a meaningful time of reflection, and to make the next year better than the last.

Wishing all of you and your families a Good and Sweet Year, and may you all be be inscribed for blessing in the Book of Life.

Reflections on 40 Years of Marriage

I hated to let our fortieth anniversary pass without writing about it -- but I've had writer's block. Finally, I read through years of old journal entries, and I realized why.

The reason that I find it hard to write about forty years of marriage is that I don't have a lot to say. Our story is amazingly simple. We fell in love, we stayed in love. In short, we were lucky.

I have no secrets about how to have a happy marriage. If you asked the experts, we probably did everything wrong. Sometimes we yelled, got mad about stupid little things, took out our frustrations on each other.

We never stayed mad for an entire 24 hours, but that was not by design. It was just that neither of us could stand it when the other was angry. If we left the house angry in the morning, we would each go into our office, close the door, call the other and make up.

In fact, most of our fights centered around one of us acting angry or inattentive, taking the other for granted, or, God forbid, seeming not to need or want the other around. Maybe we were always a little immature, but we somehow believed that if we fought about it enough, we could make our love perfect. I could never accept being together just because we fell in love once a long time ago. I wanted us to fall in love again, and again, and again...and we did.

For no particular reason, John always made me happy. Don't get me wrong, John is a wonderful person, and many people have told me so. But there are a lot of other wonderful people in the world. There is no explanation for why John's particular voice, particular smile, particular touch, make me so happy. I have stopped looking for the reason.

Now that we're older, we actually get along better. We have enough money, no young children to raise, and we've finally each learned to trust our judgment that marrying each other was a good idea. We've gotten past the idea that just because we married young, it would never work out. That was our parents' idea -- I sometimes feel that they went to their graves still waiting for our marriage to fail.

We haven't actually ever accepted the fact that we aren't still young, and, as long as we are together, we never need to. We adore being grandparents, but have simply adjusted our perspective, believing that we are young, our children are barely grown, and our grandchildren are babies.

We fell in love in what was then a faraway place, Rouen, France, when we were studying abroad. We never had a chance to show anyone in the family where our budding romance occurred... until this year. We had hoped to return with our whole family, but our daughter Rachel, her husband Jon, and their twenty month old twins had just relocated to Arkansas and were happily settling in. Our son Marc, his wife Cheryl and their two children, Hannah (7) and Max (3), were, however, able to accompany us to Paris, with a day planned for a trip to Rouen.

When we got to Rouen, it was gray and rainy. The streets looked smaller than I remembered, the pedestrian mall was deserted. I was telling myself to accept the fact we could never really share the magic, when, walking down the street holding Hannah's hand, she asked me how Grandpa and I knew were were in love.

It was, in fact, the street John and I were walking on, discussing an F.Scott Fitzgerald book, when he first proposed. At the time, I was so excited, I considered myself a veritable Zelda while she was still full of life and excitement.

When precious little Hannah asked me that question, I knew at once that she was the right person for the job of eldest grandchild. She was naturally intuitive, and would be a wonderful keeper of the flame. Suddenly the rain was beautiful, perfect really, and I felt as happy as I had on the day John had proposed. Maybe happier. The dreams we had dreamed so long ago and so far away had come true. In fact, life had exceeded our dreams, for we had made our way back to this place not only with a child, as we had dreamed, but with grandchildren too.

It took me a moment to answer Hannah's question. Then, I knew the answer was clear. "I just wanted to be with him all the time, " I said. And you know what? I still do.

Top 10 Reasons its lucky to have a Chronic Degenerative Disease

10. You learn to be a good actor, telling people you "love retirement", and "never really wanted to go on that trip anyway"...

9. You improve your math and organizational skills sorting medications and keeping track of doctors' appointments.

8. You get to use a stylish cane (walker, wheelchair...).

7. You get a lot of nice views of the backs of your friends and relatives as they walk ahead of you, leave you resting on a bench...

6. You finally have a good excuse not to try out for the Olympics.

5. You have an opportunity to actually understand Medicare, so at least you know why your prescriptions aren't covered.

4. You have a chance to be on a first name basis with your pharmacist.

3. You have time to see all the reruns of "Golden Girls", "Gunsmoke", and "Leave it to Beaver".

2. You have hours every day to sing out loud, with no one around to complain.

1. You have plenty of time to sit around composing stupid top ten lists!

Finding Myself --- Again

Flashback: The year is 1981, it is evening, and I am walking on the streets of New York alone, on my was to see the movie, "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I have been sent by my new employer, the State of Connecticut Banking Department, to New York to attend a conference. In the evening between the two days of the conference I go to the movie. I am so excited. My new legal career has been launched, and I am managing as a working Mom. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is.

Flashforward: It is December 8, 2010, the last night of Chanukah. I am sitting in my favorite lounge chair, surrounded by diet ginger ale, used kleenex, and empty pill containers. I have taken all my medications for the day, including my pre-bedtime dose of medication for my bronchitis and my middle of the night dose of Parkinson's Disease medicine. I've had a nice day, out with friends to a museum trip and luncheon, out with John for one last night of latkes, and a nice long chat with my sister. All this topped off with a phone call from my daughter Rachel saying that she and her husband Jon will accept my offer to accompany them on their move to Arkansas, and to stay for a week or so to help watch the kids while they settle in. John has said that maybe he can come on the weekend.

John went to bed a couple of hours ago, but I needed to unwind. Just for fun, I have just watched an old romantic movie from 1989 called "Chances Are". It's hard to watch without feeling a little sad about how good Robert Downey, Jr. used to be. During the movie, I am feeling excited, thinking about the trip to Arkansas, and our upcoming trip to Paris with Marc and Cheryl and their children. I am wondering if I can pull it all off, or will be felled by more bronchitis. But, reminding myself that both Paris and Arkansas are warmer in the winter than Connecticut, I feel optimistic. Besides, antibiotics are available both in Arkansas and Paris, just in case.

As I am about to go to bed, the television announcer states that the next movie is "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I make the motions of staying up to watch it, but knowing that I will fall asleep, I hit the DVR button so I can see the rest in the morning. I settle back in my lounge chair, and happily begin to watch the movie. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is. It is a sign: my new career, as traveling Grandma, is being launched.

As life goes on, and things change, moving forward for me has not been so much a process of reinventing myself, but of finding myself again in the new surroundings. I realize now that it wasn't being a lawyer that defined me, it was being enthusiastic, and excited about what I was doing that defined me. In "The French Lieutenant's Woman" the characters are movie stars who glide back and forth between the roles they play as 19th century Londoners, and their real lives, but the story is eerily similar in both settings, and the ending uncertain. Perhaps that is why I have always loved that movie, it is a story of self transcending setting. It is also a reminder to me that there are times in life when joy happens, when difficulties only appear to be challenges, and when new doors open when we least expect it.

Do I love "The French Lieutenant's Woman" beyond proportion to how good it is? Do I love life beyond proportion to how good it is? Maybe -- or maybe sometimes, a movie, or a day, is really just that good.

Joy and Solemnity

Flashback: It is 1959, and I have been awarded a menorah as a prize for the best essay in our Sunday school class on my favorite holiday. Of course, I have written about Passover. I not only loved Passover, but was so proud of my parents for the wonderful seders they made. My father led the seder, and my mother cooked, but they both did their jobs perfectly. Every year, my father introduced a new fact about Passover, which he personally researched. He would lead us through the seder with a mix of joy and solemnity that captured the essence of the holiday.

Flashforward: It is 2010, and 18 people are around our seder table. Well, not entirely around the table. My daughter-in-law Cheryl, who is awaiting back surgery, in lying on the couch. She has made the journey from Newton to Newington, almost two hours of agony in the car, just so she and my son and grandchildren could be with us. My sister Melinda is sitting on the other couch, afraid to move. She was taken to the emergency room in an ambulance from our home the night before due to an extreme attack of vertigo, one of many she has had recently. My 10 month old grandchildren Nathaniel and Evelyn are sitting in high chairs for most of the ceremony, although my daughter Rachel and Evelyn join the group in the living room when Evelyn gets restless. My grandson Max, almost 2 and one half, is making himself at home wandering from one end of the table to the next, his own version of being around the table. Fortunately, in our home we have had to extend the tables into the living room to fit everyone in, so the ceremony is fully visible to those not exactly around the table. I have tried to find comfortable chairs for my Aunt Beryl and my friend Maxanne, both of whom are also experiencing back pain. I myself have been banned from helping to serve the Matzah Ball soup, because the tremors from my Parkinson's Disease have become sufficiently frequent that I am considered by one and all to be a danger around hot liquids. Besides that, I have not successfully fought off my cold, despite three days of bed rest, and I know that the with all of this activity I am risking another round of bronchitis.

Despite this, we are all here. As the time for the seder approaches, everyone is dressed up, and chatting gaily, watching the babies' antics, and listening to our 6 year old granddaughter Hannah report that she is prepared to do the first of the four questions in Hebrew as a solo this year. I call everyone to the table and we begin.

As the matriarch of the family, we ask our Aunt Beryl, now 81, to kindle the holiday lights. She does the English reading, and we all join in on the Hebrew prayer. My husband John leads the seder. Each year he uses the large reader's volume of the Haggadah, which was part of a gift to my parents along with the original set of eight Haggadot that my brothers and sister and I gave to my parents many years ago (as childen, we used the Maxwell House haggadot). At first, maybe we felt like John was channeling my father through that big book, with my father's penciled annotations, which John refuses to erase. Now, however, John has developed his own style, which moves me. He goes through each ritual, reads loudly enough for all to hear, but gently, and pauses enough to let me jump in with a suggestion of where to continue or what to chant in Hebrew. He smiles graciously throughout the service. As an adult convert to Judaism, John leads the basic Hebrew blessings, but where we opt to add more Hebrew chanting, John graciously turns it over to others. Thus we ask Marc, our son who had majored in Jewish and Near Eastern studies in college, to chant the kiddush, and to lead us in the Birkat Hamazon after the service. I sometimes kick of the singing of the other songs, as does our son-in-law Jon, who is good at keeping on the right page and keeping us moving along.

Soon, we are all participating in the ceremonies. It doesn't matter that some of us are not Jewish, (my sister-in-law Kathy, wife of my brother Andy, and my nephew Matt are Catholic), we all join in. My Uncle Yale, who takes pride in considering himself not to be religious, participates fully. Hannah chants the introduction to the four questions and the first of the four questions beautifully in her clear, sweet 6 year old voice. When John discusses the Matzah, the poor man's bread, Max exhibits the toy Matzah with a gleeful cry "Matzah", and we know he is paying attention. He joins in the loud and joyful choruses of Dayenu, and Nate smiles gaily and bangs his hand on the high chair tray in tune to the music. Nate is so excited that he sits in his high chair through the whole pre-meal part of the service, and, his father reports to us later, tries every dish (cut up in small pieces on the high chair tray). Evie spends some of the time reclining on her Mother's lap, but drinks it all in and stays awake for the whole pre-meal portion of the service. Hannah masterfully steals and hides the Afikomen, to be ransomed back later.

I know that my nephew Dan, who has come from New York, and makes a point of joining us whenever he can, will remember the many Seders shared with us, as part of his own history, as will my own children. Will the grandchildren? Will this be a vague memory, spoken of when cousins reunite at weddings and Bar Mitzvahs (remember when we were little and we had the Seder at Grandma and Grandpa's house), or will it only be the type of vague memory that lets them know that not a year when by without a seder?

I realize that this doesn't matter. We have fulfilled the Mitzvah, we have celebrated the Passover. All of the adults present, whether with their own children or children born to others yet raised by us all, have participated in the Mitzvah of passing on the tradition from one generation to the next. We have had our seder, lead with a mixture of joy and solemnity, which captures the essence of the holiday.

Postscript: It is now a little more than two weeks after the seder, and Cheryl has had successful back surgery, Melinda is in treatment for her vertigo, which seems to have been triggered by a virus, and appears to be slowly recovering, and my bout of bronchitis has come and gone.