Wednesday, May 2, 2012

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.