A Yom HaShoah Reflection for Our Times

This is the 2025 iteration of a message I post annually on Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day). If you can read only part of it, jump to the last paragraph.

In July of 2007, I volunteered to accompany a group of 48 NFTY-ites (the Reform Movement’s youth group in North America) on a L'dor v'Dor journey to Poland, the Czech Republic, and then on to Israel. (Crazy, I know.) One of our many visits to significant sites was a mass grave in the woods in Tikochin, three hours from Warsaw and two hours from the Lithuanian border. The time we spent there was, for me, perhaps the most difficult of the entire trip—and there were many difficult moments.

But those in the forest were personal.

My paternal grandfather, Abraham Charmatz was born in Lithuania, one of 19 children (yes, 19!). He was the youngest, and only a handful came to this country. (We originally believed that his name was changed to "Herman" at Ellis Island, but I have since learned from Dara Horn, author of "People Love Dead Jews," that it is a fallacy that names were changed there. According to Horn, they were changed afterward, and there are court records that prove her assertion. I have not searched court records for my grandfather's name change.)

To hear my father tell this part of our family's story, when he was growing up on Mapes Avenue in the Bronx in the 1930s and 1940s, his father frequently received letters from his brothers and sisters in Lithuania. Until the letters stopped.

I lit a yahrzeit candle at the mass grave in the woods in Tikochin, and today, once again, I remember all those unknown aunts and uncles and cousins. May they rest in peace in the shelter of the Eternal.

And while we're remembering, it would be wise to remember, too, that the current administration's efforts to "protect" Jews from antisemitism, especially on college campuses, are nothing more than a facade that tramples the civil rights of immigrants, many of whom are living and studying in this country legally and have the right—just like the rest of us—to assembly and free speech. In America, when those freedoms are denied to anyone, we all lose, and no one, including Jews, is safe from the forces that wish to see us gone—from this country or from the world.

Remembering Tante Laura

This yahrzeit candle is for my Tante Laura, who died on March 5, 1970—55 years ago. Although we shared only seven years on this earth, her memory is forever etched in my heart.

She gifted me my first Hanukkiyah, so small it uses the thinnest of birthday candles and remains among my treasures.

In the early 1920s, she and one of her sisters, my grandmother, came to this country along with a brother, Max, who had served in the Austrian army. The three worked in the garment industry, saving enough to bring their parents to the Golden Medina. Two decades later, she and Max, neither of whom ever married, lived together in an apartment they rented from Mrs. Provenzano that was located above (or maybe next door to?) Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home Inc. on Second Avenue between Third and Fourth streets on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

Across Second Avenue stands the Church of the Nativity. It got a facelift in the 1970s, but when my mother visited Tante Laura and Uncle Max as a young girl in the late 1930s and 1940s, the building had a Greek Revival edifice. As she told us many times, she loved to watch from Tante Laura's front window as wedding parties left the church on Saturday afternoons to pose for pictures on the front steps—the bride and groom in the middle flanked by groomsmen and taffeta-clad bridesmaids in pastels, two in pink, two in green, two in blue, and two in yellow.

When she was a young woman and Tante Laura wanted to make her a sandwich, my mother would tell her, "Just one slice of bread." But food was love, and although she abided by my mother's wish, she always picked the widest, thickest slice from the middle of the loaf of rye bread.

Later, she told us, when she was a young wife and mother, she'd often return from visiting Tante Laura, to find a cucumber, half a loaf of bread, or $10 stuffed in her purse.

By the time I knew Tante Laura, her hair was gray and held in place with combs. She wore clunky orthopedic shoes and her body was thick. "You can't escape your genes," I often say, and I am convinced I inherited my own body shape from her. I hope I also possess some of her generosity of spirit, love of family, and tenacity. I hope, too, that she knows, even after all these years, how deeply loved and missed she is by her great-nieces and great-nephews.

P.S. When one of those great-nephews went off to college in the 1980s and joined a fraternity, somehow he discovered that the maiden name of one of his fraternity brothers was Provenzano. When my cousin told his mom, my aunt, she off-handedly said, "Ask him if his mother's name is Adrienne." Indeed it is; she is the daughter of Mrs. Provenzano, Tante Laura and Uncle Max's landlord. What are the chances?!

How Framily Made Our Visit to Ojai So Magical

Once upon a time, in 1968, two little girls (one still in diapers) moved with their parents from New Jersey to Wheaton, Maryland. They didn’t know anyone who lived in Maryland, but their scientist dad had a new job at NIH, and the four of them lived in a garden apartment not far from Bethesda, where his office and lab were located.

Before long, their mom started to play bridge with other moms who lived with their families in the garden apartments. She met one mom from California who had three little girls, and the youngest was just a few months older than one of her little girls. Their dad was an engineer and a college professor.

The two families and the five little girls got to be friends. They befriended another family with a little girl, but her mom didn’t play bridge. They were from Baltimore, but had recently returned from Montana, where they’d lived near a Native American reservation where the dad had been a doctor with the U.S. Public Health Service.

The families did lots of things together, often riding into “The District” in the California family’s 1960 dark blue Chevy Nova station wagon. On the Fourth of July, they went to watch the fireworks on the National Mall; in the winter, they drove to see the National Christmas Tree, and in the spring, the beautiful pink cherry blossoms. The little girls from New Jersey loved to ride in the “way back” of the station wagon, look out the back window, and wave to the drivers behind them. It was much more fun than riding in their own black Chevy sedan with the “D.C. Last Colony” bumper sticker on the back.

The girls were in Brownies and Girl Scouts together, and when they weren’t in school or extra-curricular activities, they hung out together—playing Monopoly, Yahtzee, and hopscotch, riding bikes with banana seats, and sledding down snow-covered hills. The biggest girl, who could be very bossy (and hated raisins), sometimes bossed the littlest one around. The California family had a black cat named Troubles, and the New Jersey girls were afraid of him, especially after he scratched one of them on the nose. The Baltimore family had a parakeet whose cage sat on an old TV cart, and the little girl with the scratched nose liked to push the cart around the parakeet’s living room.

The New Jersey mom was a pre-school teacher at the JCC in Rockville, where the littlest girl went to school. Since the rest of the girls’ school day ended at lunchtime on Wednesdays (for teacher in-service training and development), the Baltimore mom watched the New Jersey mom’s older girl each Wednesday afternoon. The families pitched in to help out in other ways, too, like when one little girl had eye surgery and another had her tonsils out. (The little girl with the tonsils brought them home in a jar, and they sat on her dresser for a very long time.)

When the families celebrated Hanukkah and Christmas together, there often was homemade ice cream—from a hand-crank ice cream maker—for dessert. The girls also ate a lot of Spaghetti-O’s and Butoni toaster pizzas, even though the middles were always cold. 

One year, when the Baltimore family was away—probably in Baltimore—the New Jersey mom and dad planned a Hawaiian-themed New Year’s eve party. For days beforehand, they cooked a lot of chicken and pineapple to serve over rice to their guests and decorated their front door with travel posters for Hawaii, full of people wearing leis and hula skirts. Unfortunately, it snowed so hard that night, only the California mom and dad, who could walk from their building to the next, actually made it to the party. After the New Jersey girls were fast asleep and all the leftover Hawaiian chicken and rice had been packed away, the two moms and dads smoked marijuana—probably for the first time, and maybe the only time—that the California dad had gotten from someone at the school where he taught.

In 1972, the New Jersey family moved back to New Jersey, so the dad could teach at Rutgers. Shortly afterward, the California family and the Baltimore family each moved to a townhouse in the same complex as the garden apartments. When the California family moved back to California, they visited the New Jersey family on their way to the west coast. When the young lady (she wasn’t a little girl anymore) in the Baltimore family became bat mitzvah, the New Jersey family drove to Maryland for the simcha. They returned each summer to visit the Baltimore family, who by this time had moved into a house in Silver Spring, and so the little girl who had the eye surgery could continue to see the same eye doctor in Washington, D.C. In between visits, the Baltimore and New Jersey moms talked on the phone every Monday night—beginning at 11 p.m., when the rates went down.

In the summer of 1979, the New Jersey girls flew for the first time, when the family traveled to Los Angeles to visit the California family in Manhattan Beach. Together the two families visited Disneyland and Universal Studios, before the New Jersey family took off in their rented Datsun to visit San Diego, Ojai, and the Mohave Desert for a few days. Later that same year, the Baltimore family adopted a little girl, and the older New Jersey girl got to meet the baby only a few months later when she was in Washington, D.C. to attend a model United Nations conference for high school students. When the younger New Jersey girl attended law school in Washington, D.C., she visited the Baltimore family often. Her sister visited a few times when she was in Washington, D.C. for work.

Weddings, cross-country business trips, and Ma Bell kept the families connected throughout the 1980s and 90s, but never did all three gather in the same place at the same time. In 2002, the elder New Jersey girl, who lived in Los Angeles at the time, spent a lot of time with the California family in San Luis Obispo, while she got untangled from her marriage and prepared to return to the east coast. 

In 2010, the New Jersey mom died, followed in 2013 by the Baltimore mom. We like to think that wherever they are, they’re together in a place that includes plenty of outlet malls and deep discount warehouses and that they’re riding around in a big ol’, gas-guzzling Chevy Impala with lots of room in the back seat and the trunk for whatever glassware, placemats, or other treasures they pick up.

When the pandemic hit, three generations of the California family’s girls—sometimes joined by a fourth-generation toddler—and the New Jersey and Baltimore girls began meeting weekly on Zoom for Bi-Coastal Happy Hour (BCHH). When the littlest girl, living in New York City, announced a business trip to Ojai, California, plans for an in-person reunion kicked in.

For a few days in mid-August, the California mom, the six little girls, and a daughter of one of the California girls had a magical time together in Ojai—catching up, celebrating, remembering, reminiscing, and planning for the next reunion.

The end… but not really.

#BlogElul 5781: Understand

Dear The Mums and Mrs. Steinberg,

I don’t completely understand where olam haba (the world to come) is located or exactly what you’re doing there, but I hope it includes plenty of outlet malls and deep discount warehouses and that you’re riding around together in a big ol’, gas-guzzling Chevy Impala checking them all out. I’m sure there’s lots of room in the back seat and the trunk for whatever glassware, placemats, or other treasures you pick up. Maybe there’s even a café or two that serves Lipton (or was it Nestea?) flavored iced tea—orange for you, Mrs. S., and lime for you, TM,—so you can take a break from the bargain hunting when you get parched. Of course, I’m guessing, too, that the weather and the temperature are perfect, and there’s no need to run the A/C at all, let alone on “frenzy.”

Amy and I, though, may be running the A/C just that way this week, and I want to let you know where we’ll be and with whom we’ll be hanging out. She has a business presentation in Ojai, California, and I’m going along for the ride. Best of all, though, Barbara and three generations of the Harrises—a total of nine of us—are going to meet there for a few days of girls’ fun, including celebrating Amy’s birthday on Tuesday. I know—and you know, too—that you’ll be right there with us in spirit, marking the first time we will all have been together in person since, oh, maybe, 1972.

Like I said, I’m not so sure about the details of olam haba, and even though that’s where you are, a piece of each of you is forever in my heart.

xoxo

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima , this #BlogElul post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Elul, which precede the Jewish High Holidays and traditionally serve as a time of reflection and spiritual preparation for the new year.

Here's Where I Was "Strabunsing Harum"

July 8, 2021

Dear Aunt Claire,

If you tried to call me yesterday and wondered where I was “strabunsing harum” (gallivanting about) as you always wanted to know, I was with all the other people who gathered to celebrate you and your life—and, at your request, not grieve your death. Although we’re terribly sad, I hope your ears were ringing. So many people had lovely things to say about you and your long, well-lived life. You would have loved to chat with them all!

Marc and Ted each spoke lovingly of you and how you always managed to balance your career as an occupational therapist—first working with stroke patients and later starting the OT program at Kean College of New Jersey—with being their mother, long before work-life balance was even a thing.

I recall visiting you in your office at Kean on several occasions, and I remember this story that happened during your tenure there: You woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t remember if you’d turned off the coffee pot in the office. Ever practical, you called the campus safety and security office to see if someone could go check on the coffee pot. After you made this request, the person on the other end of the phone said, “Lady, we can’t do that right now, there’s a fire on campus.” Luckily, the blaze wasn’t in your building and, as you discovered the next morning, you had, in fact, turned off the coffee machine!

Marc and Ted also talked about your optimism, your knack for connecting with strangers, and how your service as a trustee on the board of Beth Sholom Reform Temple in Clifton (now a part of Temple Ner Tamid in Bloomfield) exemplified your commitment to Judaism.

I have a few distinct memories from your time in that congregation: I remember how you nurtured the temple’s “Laura Fischer Memorial Library” into existence after Tante Laura died and honored her memory by serving as the librarian for many years. I wonder what became of all those Laura Fischer Library books with the blue and white bookplates. Maybe some of them made it to Ner Tamid…

At Ted’s bar mitzvah luncheon in the social hall, when the DJ told him it was time to dance with his favorite girl, instead of picking you, he picked Jodi Cook… and in the four-plus decades since, I’ve reminded him of that faux pas every so often.

Lastly, although it happened long before I entered the Jewish professional world, I knew that having a woman cantor, as that congregation did, was a big deal. I’m not sure I realized back then that Barbara Ostfeld was the first ordained female cantor, but I always knew you were quite fond of her—and it was mutual. I connected with her during my time at the URJ, and she wrote this to me earlier this week, “I'm sorry and think that this particular loss is shared to one degree or another by so many. I count myself among them. She was unforgettable.”

Unforgettable is an apt description. So many of my friends (and Ma’s and Amy’s, too) remember you—and told me so on Facebook: “I remember your aunt as a sweet, quiet, gentle soul,” said Rabbi Debbie Bravo; Ma’s friend, Kathy Kahn, said, “I remember Claire so well. What a sweetheart she was...” Amy’s lifelong friend, Maria, wrote: “Aunt Claire was a lovely person…” (I love how she called you “Aunt Claire,” just like everyone called Uncle Irv “Uncle Irv.”) Judy Tushman said, “Claire’s collection of Quimper was the first thing she showed me in her apartment. It was amazing, and so was Claire. A truly lovely person, and a pleasure to know.”

Speaking of Quimper, I used to love to scour the tables at flea markets and antique shows for the familiar yellow and blue pottery and was so excited when, on rare occasions, I spotted it. One year that happened a few months before one of your milestone birthdays, and I was thrilled to purchase the two small saucers for you, adding a small card that said that as aunts go, no one could Quimper!

Even though it was a funeral, it was nice to see Marilyn and Phyllis (they hadn’t seen each other since before the pandemic), Norma, Eddie, and Ellen (and her husband), all of whom where there for you, as was Colleen’s sister and her family, along with a few of their cousins. Phyllis told me that she was so sad about you because, “Not only were she and your mom my cousins, but they were my friends. As a matter of fact, Claire and Jash were chaperones at my Sweet 16 party which was held at the China Doll in Manhattan.”

Orit Simhoni came up from Maryland to be with us yesterday, and although I spoke with her only briefly, she told me what a mentor you always were to her in her own career as an OT. In some ways, you were an OT rock star. Our family friend and also an OT, Jeanne Weisblatt, told me she “remembered meeting your aunt a long time ago and being so excited that she was a professor of occupational therapy at Kean College.”

I remember other things about your career—like how if you have to walk steps with a bad foot or ankle, you’re supposed to start “up with good and down with the bad.” I also recall how you often had a tape measure in your purse specifically to measure the width of various public restroom stalls to see if a wheelchair could fit within them—long before the ADA was enacted into law. Mostly, I remember the story you told about sending pairs of students from Kean to the mall to take turns being pushed by the other in a wheelchair, gaining a new perspective about the real-life, daily challenges people using wheelchairs face. When one pair of students switched places in public, they reported back to you and the class that they’d inadvertently caught the attention of other shoppers, who no doubt thought they were witnessing a miraculous cure unfold.

Debbie Stone was there, too, and told me how you and Uncle Jash were in the congregation the night she was installed as president of Temple Beth Tikvah, the community you joined after BSRT got folded into Ner Tamid, and how nice it was to look out and see your smiling face. Seeing a few pictures of you on Facebook, one of my friends wrote to me: “I can see your face in her smile.”

Mrs. Marks and Cheryl Ronan from Brookshire Drive were there, too. Mrs. Marks looks exactly as I remember her, and she told me that Phyllis’ daughter is pregnant, and she and Mr. Marks are very excited about becoming great-grandparents in a few months. I wouldn’t have known Cheryl, but I did remember that we’re nearly the exact same age (two days apart, it turns out), and it was nice to chat with her. All the “kids” talked about your backyard, the scene of so many cookouts and family celebrations of all kinds. I can see it all in my mind’s eye as though it was yesterday—the patio, Uncle Irv’s garden, home plate, the pitcher’s mound near the oak tree, and all your turquoise and white napkins, serving pieces, and paper goods that were specifically for outdoor entertaining. Someone mentioned there were no fences between most of the backyards on the street, so we probably could have walked straight through them all the way to Route 23.

I also spent time chatting with Beth, who drove to New Jersey from near State College, Pennsylvania. She told me about your trip together to Fallingwater (I remember when you went with her) and also about the place (whose name I cannot remember) you visited with her when she went to see you in Detroit a few years ago. She’s coming to NYC in October, and Amy and I plan to do some museum-hopping with her while she’s here. We’ve never spent time with her, and I’m looking forward to it. In an email I wrote to her last night, I said, “No doubt, we'll bring Aunt Claire along with us in spirit” and that is definitely true. I can’t quite believe you’re gone, but I will carry you in my heart always.

xoxo,

Jane

P.S. Of course, I'll always be so grateful for your help after my surgery in 2011 and remember how you wanted to be the first one to stay with me because, as you said, you knew how to manage the drains. I could not have asked for better or more loving care during that week.

Does Anything Quimper to This Small World Passover Story?

For nearly as long as I can remember, my Aunt Claire has been collecting Quimper French pottery (pronounced CamPear). It’s mostly yellow or white, round or octagonally shaped, and often includes a man or a woman standing in profile, surrounded by a border of dainty, yet measured flourishes of blue, green, or red paint. In addition to plates, bowls, and cups and saucers, my aunt has collected, in the course of nearly 50 years, gravy boats, serving platters, wall hangings, pitchers, vases, and more. Some out-of-the ordinary pieces are painted in shades of green, but still are adorned with the distinctive French country figures. A man on one plate, a woman on another.

When she redecorated her kitchen, sometime in the 1980s, I’m guessing, she made Quimper the centerpiece of the room, choosing wallpaper, fabric for the window curtain, and plain blue everyday dishes—all to complement the yellow pottery. She and I trekked to the Pierre Deux store in New York City to find exactly the right wallpaper and fabric pattern.

Fast forward to this past Thursday evening.

As I scrolled through Facebook, admiring all the seder tables, adorned with laptops to bring friends and family into our quarantined celebrations, this photo caught my eye:

Commenting on the photo, I said, “Chag sameach! And a weird question: Do your yellow dinner plates have figures of men and women on them? Are they Quimper?”

In his reply, the poster of the photo, one-half of a couple I know through a mutual friend (and, more recently, through my synagogue) wrote: “Yes, and I don’t know!”

Me: “What does it say on the back of the plate? My aunt has been a longtime collector of antique pieces of this French pottery, which is pronounced ‘CamPear,’ and she has an incredible collection of it. It seems her collector's eye has rubbed off on me!

Adam: “I looked on the back of the plate and it does say Quimper.”

He then sent me this photo via a direct message and our conversation continued from there:

Me: As I suspected! I foresee a blog post coming from this conversation. Stay tuned....and chag sameach!

Adam: Ha ha! Ok. They belonged to Marla’s mom, Donna Newman, and after she passed away they came to Marla.

Me: Are they your Passover dishes or do you use them year-round?

Adam: We use them on special occasions year-round.

It’s now Saturday afternoon, and I’m crafting this post—not only because I love this story of an unexpected connection, but also so I can send it to my Aunt Claire in Florida. She’ll love it, too!

Never again will a Passover come or go that I don’t think of Adam and Marla and the Quimper dishes on their holiday table.

Wishing everyone a ziessen Pesach!

When Someone in the Family is #TragicallyJewish

My sister sometimes texts my dad and me pictures of herself before she heads out to teach The Art of Perception. I’ve started to follow her lead – mostly to connect with them both each morning.

Today, our thread started with this photo:

Daddy: Good morning. Fetching, as usual. Off to minyan? L.D.

Me: Yup. How was the new rabbi?

Daddy: She conducted a lovely, low-key service. She is very effective & I think only good things about her. Have a good day. L.D.

Me: So, I should plan to come for YK?

Daddy: If you wish, but we have time to talk about it. L.D.

Me: Indeed.

My Sister: I just woke up. Why are we talking about Yom Kippur? I am going to have breakfast.


Me: 

Daddy: I dunno. JEH likes to get her calendar in order early, I suppose. Have a good day & stay cool. L.D.

Me: My temple already sent info re: tix and choosing services. I’d rather fast forward right to Columbus Day. (Yes, I admit this is not a terribly #TragicallyJewish statement, but it is true. I would rather attend services 50 weeks of the year and skip the HHDs entirely. Anyone else?)

Daddy: YK is not until Oct. 9. (I wonder if he knew that off the top of his head or if he had to look it up.) We can talk about it. Not to worry. L.D.

5 Things I’m Grateful for This Black Friday…and Always

Photo: Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center

These people, places and things (but nothing with a SKU or UPC code) are bringing me joy and gratitude this Black Friday – and all year long.

5. Living and working in New York City

Despite my love-hate relationship with the city – its noise, crowds, transit system, and other offerings, good and not so good – there’s nothing quite like helpful New Yorkers, bodega coffee, or crossing 23^rd Street against the light on a holiday morning when New York shows us its quiet side.

4. William, my trainer

From crunches to rowing, lifting to running, boxing to jumping, the two hours I spend under William’s guidance each week make me a partner in caring for my body, building physical and emotional strength, and expanding my world with a small view into the life of an Ecuadorian immigrant family.

3. Health and the insurance to help guard it

A visit to the Evelyn H. Lauder Breast Center at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center right before Thanksgiving each year not only reminds me not to take my health for granted, but also to remember the hundreds of people who, whether they know it or not, play a role in ensuring my inherited genetics don’t determine my destiny.

2. The minyan at Temple Shaaray Tefila

In a large congregation, it’s a blessing to slip into “my pew” on most Saturday mornings and to connect to the people around me, and the prayers, music, and rituals that will unfold in the coming hours. Torah study, too, connects me to my (ancient) people, unchanged by the millennia, but ever-changing because of my own new perspectives, knowledge, and “ah-ha” moments.

1. Family and friends

More than an individual's presence, it is the love, support, joy, laughter, humanity, honesty, attention, time, and more that we share with one another that makes my life rich and full. Thanks to the people in my village and in my world – near and far, new and not so new, known and unknown – I truly have everything I need.

Is There a Gene for Snack-Packing?

Early today – and I mean early – my sister and I set out for White Plains, which is about an hour north of New York City. Our destination was White Plains Hospital, where I’m enrolled in a clinical trial that seeks to determine if regular screening of individuals at increased risk of pancreatic cancer will result in early detection, if and when the disease occurs. (Poo-poo-poo… even though I’m not superstitious or anything.)

Thankfully, the endoscopic ultrasound, which is somewhat invasive and requires a “Propofol nap,” was uneventful with normal results (Keinehora… even though I’m not superstitious or anything), and by late morning, we were headed back to Gotham on the train.

Needing a snack to prevent “hangry” from setting in, my sister pulled from her purse a zip-lock bag filled with fresh cherries. Seeing them reminded me of my own snack buried in my bag: a zip-lock bag of almonds and pitted dates.

Chuckling over the similarity, my sister said, “You get that from your grandmother. Fanny lives.” Indeed, our grandmother lives on through us in many ways. Today it was through our matching zip-lock bags of snacks.

Honor Thy Father and Mother

We are a people in whom the past endures,
in whom the present in inconceivable without moments gone by.
The Exodus lasted a moment, a moment enduring forever.
What happened once upon a time happens all the time.
-- Mishkan T’filah

At tonight’s Shavuot learning program at Temple Shaaray Tefila, the 10 Commandments were taught by 10 different teachers, each of whom had 10 minutes to make a presentation about one of the commandments. Cantor Todd Kipnis, in teaching about the fourth commandment – Honor thy father and mother – shared an essay his mother wrote about honoring her mother at a time in their lives when their roles largely were reversed. The daughter became the mother; the mother became the daughter.

His mother’s essay provoked in me a flood of tears, not only because of what she wrote and how she wrote it, but also because of the memories it evoked of how our family honored my mother eight years ago on this exact date, May 19, 2010.

It was on that date that I wrote two entries on my mother’s CaringBridge site. First, this one:

As many of you already know, the last few weeks have been difficult for my mother. During this last week in particular, her condition has deteriorated significantly, and she has, despite medication, been in considerable pain. Yesterday, acting upon recommendations from both her oncologist and her long-time internist, my father, my sister, and I agreed that it is now time to follow her wishes and make arrangements for her to enter a hospice facility. Accordingly, we met at length with a hospice nurse, and within the next few days, we expect that my mom will be moved to Haven Hospice at JFK Hospital in Edison (right across the street from her beloved Temple Emanu-El). In the meantime, she is resting comfortably in the hospital, and we, too, are comfortable knowing that we are abiding by my mother’s wishes.

Many of you know, too, that the Festival of Shavuot, which began last night, is my mom’s favorite Jewish holiday. As Rabbi Bravo wrote to a few of her own colleagues yesterday, “Diana would have wanted us to celebrate this holiday, just as she loved Torah and let it be her guide through life. Ironically, she went into the hospital on Pesach, and here we are on Shavuot. Her family and I decided that just as she lived her life by the Jewish calendar, so is she planning her end of days in a similar way.”

Later that same day, having accompanied her (thanks to two kind, young women paramedics) on the ride from the hospital in New Brunswick to the hospice facility in Edison, I wrote this penultimate journal entry:

This afternoon my mother was transferred from Robert Wood Johnson to the hospice facility at JFK Hospital in Edison. When we left her, she was (as she has been for the last few days) unresponsive, but resting comfortably and in no pain. The speed of her deterioration on all fronts during the last several days has been notable and somewhat startling, even to a longtime family friend who has been together with us frequently during the last seven weeks. Having said that, we have reassessed our earlier thoughts regarding visitors, and would prefer that only family, clergy, and close friends visit. We want your memories of my mother to be filled with laughter, happy times, and much goodness. We are, of course, grateful for your outpouring of care and love on this site and invite you to continue to share your thoughts with us.

I know that we honored my mother well on that day. I like to think, too, that excepting for a few teenage temper tantrums, I honored her well throughout all her days, and that for the rest of my own days, I will continue to honor her memory and her well-lived life.

Happy Mother's Day, The Mums

Dear The Mums,

A belated happy Mother’s Day.

I didn’t get to finish this letter on Sunday because I spent the early part of the day cleaning my apartment. I know…I can hear your emphatic “Feh” loud and clear, but the windows were filthy and, as Amy would have said in her younger days, the garbage cans were “overfloating.”

In the midst of cleaning the windows, though, I received the sweetest text from Debbie Bravo, who, eight years ago at this season, was with us night and day. She wrote: “Good morning. Thinking of you on this day. I know it is always a hard day. I always think of your mom at this time of year because I know how much she loved that climb to Sinai.”

Here’s what I wrote back to her: “You are so sweet. Thank you. It was such a hard week for other reasons that the lead up to Mother’s Day sort of took a back seat. It did occur to me, though, that I can imagine my mom now taking up “Talmud Study for Beginners” in Olam haBa.

You probably already know that 10 days ago Aaron Panken was tragically killed when a small plane he was piloting crashed shortly after take-off. As I’m sure you can imagine, the entire Reform world is stunned. Even now, with the funeral and shiva over, it’s going to take a long time for the reality to sink in – most of all for his family, but for everyone else too. So, a new Talmud teacher is coming to Olam haBa – and maybe he’s already there, settling in, arranging some books in his office, putting together a syllabus. If he offers a class for lay people, I know you’ll be first in line to sign up.

In the late afternoon I went to Amy’s because she had to teach at a bankers’ meeting that night, so I stayed with Ian. At 15, he could have stayed by himself for the few hours she was gone, but it’s always more fun for both of us when I “babysit.” We brought in pizza for dinner and then I helped him with a history essay about British imperialism in India. (Sad to say, the kid got your feet, but definitely didn’t inherit any of your writing genes.) Certainly not a traditional Mother’s Day, but also not bad for a rainy Sunday.

In other news, tomorrow night I’m going to get all gussied up to go – for the first time – to Shaaray Tefila’s annual gala. The ticket cost me more than half a day’s worth of freelance work, but the honoree is someone who has been incredibly kind and caring since the day I met her, just five weeks after you died. You’d like Liz – she’s honest, forthright, studies Torah, has a lovely singing voice and a heart of gold, and is a lifelong member of the synagogue.

That’s about it from here for this week. I hope you had a good Mother’s Day and please don’t forget to sign up for a Talmud class. Maybe there will be one in time for Shavuot...that would be perfect for you!

Miss you….xoxo,
~ Boo!

P.S. It’s going to be near 90 degrees today and I’m schvitzing like it’s July. My turn to say “Feh,” a word that, thanks to you, increasingly is a part of my vocabulary!

I Wasn’t Sick, But the Community Helped Me Heal

Tonight’s Shabbat service at Temple Shaaray Tefila used bibliodrama and storytelling to explore the themes of illness, healing, loneliness, and community associated with this week’s Torah portion, Tazria-Metzora. I was honored to share my personal story of healing as part of the service.

Thank you, Rabbi Lenza… I’m honored to speak to you tonight. 

As I was thinking about how to share my story of illness – which wasn’t really illness at all – and the healing that followed, I realized it’s not only my story. It has everything to do with how this community responded and so, this is really our story...and it goes something like this…

In the spring of 2010, my mom died from aggressive breast cancer that ravaged her body in seven weeks’ time – literally from Pesach to Shavuot. During those weeks, even before my story began, Rabbi Stein called me regularly, just to check in. 

That summer, my sister and I got genetic counseling and testing for BRCA mutations. Indeed, a genetic mutation had been lurking in our family for generations. And, it had been passed along to me – significantly increasing the chance that in my lifetime, I would get breast, ovarian, and/or pancreatic cancer, as well as melanoma. 

An emotional roller-coaster ride ensued. At each turn was another doctor’s appointment, more reading and research, and intense loneliness. Still mourning my mom, suddenly I was a member of a club I never even knew existed – and I didn’t know anyone else who belonged. 

I wasn’t sick, but if I wanted to stay that way, I needed to educate myself and make some tough choices, choices that were made more difficult precisely because I was healthy. I was playing Russian roulette...and I’m no gambler.

I’d recently been attending the chapel minyan to say kaddish for my mom and I shared my news with a few people in the group. (It’s here that my story and the congregation’s story became one.) 

Four months later, I had the first of several preventive surgeries, skipping minyan for about five weeks while I recovered. During those weeks, Jesse Berger, whom I didn’t know well, called to see where I’d been; Brigitte Sion, challah in tow, came to visit on a Friday afternoon. 

With their acts of kindness and those of others in this community, I felt anything but isolated. Even now, all these years later, recalling those gestures warms my heart.  

Again, in July 2011, I disappeared from minyan – this time for more extensive preventive surgery that kept me in the hospital for five nights and out of commission until the fall.

As before, calls, visits, and well wishes, from the community and clergy helped sustain me. I was pleased to join what I dubbed (and this is a little PG-13) the “Sisterhood of the Traveling Bras,” whose comfy, post-surgery under-things were loaned to me by a Shaaray staffer who, as a fellow mutation carrier, had already been down this path. She knew exactly what I’d need while I recovered. When I returned to minyan after weeks away, the welcome I received fed my soul in ways that have stayed with me. 

It’s been almost seven years since my most recent surgery. Although physical and emotional scars remain, I am healthy – and doing everything I can to stay that way. I’ve recently enrolled in a clinical surveillance study designed to advance early detection of pancreatic cancer among those at highest risk. 

My experiences have made me an activist in the hereditary cancer community, particularly committed to raising awareness about inherited genetic mutations, especially in families like mine, where flawed genes often remain hidden until somebody dies. 

If you remember nothing else from this story, please remember this: BRCA mutations are considered rare, present in the general population in approximately one in every 400 to 800 people. In the Ashkenazi Jewish population, though, one in 40 of us – both men and women – carries a mutation, and 90 percent of carriers are unaware of their status. 

If you want to know more, let’s chat during the oneg Shabbat.

In the meantime, I’m so grateful to this community, and especially to the members of the minyan, for the concern, support, and kindnesses they showed me during my “non-illness” and recovery – and for the caring, kindness, and camaraderie I believe we show each other from week to week as we deal with the ups and downs in our lives.

Thank you and Shabbat shalom.

#BlogExodus: Praise

Because there are no rules for #BlogExodus and because I often need time to process and percolate my thoughts, I believe it’s okay to write this last entry now, on the second day of Passover. If so, I wish to offer praise:

To the people who welcomed me into their homes over the last two nights for seder, in one instance for the umpteenth time, in another for the first time. In both cases, all of us who gathered, benefitted from gracious and generous hospitality, engaging company, wonderful food, lots of laughter, and the opportunity to retell the story of the exodus from Egypt, sharing and celebrating Jewish tradition together.

For growing and ever-intersecting and connecting circles of friends.

For musicians – cantors and professional singers – whose sweet voices enriched the journey from the narrowness of Mitzrayim.

For Rabbi Jim Rudin for his reminder that this year, 15 Nisan marked the 75 ^thanniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, and also for pointing out the beautiful full moon as we headed back into the city, following the first seder.

For MetroNorth trains that run relatively on time.

For Elmo and for his knowing 13, so he could, as has become his own holiday tradition, help with Echad Mi Yodea.

For my friend, Pamela, and our new-ish holiday tradition that affirms our decisions to choose life and confirms that some of what makes Passover Passover has little to do with brisket, matzah, or Manischewitz.

For the blessing of memory that allows us to remember with love those who live in our hearts, even if they’re no longer physically with us around the table and for the power of that first bite of wet matzah spread with sweet, whipped butter to open floodgates to the past – and decades of Passover memories as sweet as the butter.

For Elijah and his enduring ability to keep hope alive – for whatever our hearts desire and for a more equitable and just world that is our responsibility to help build and create.

Chag sameach, friends!

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima , this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nisan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Friday, March 30, corresponding to the Hebrew date 15 Nisan 5778. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts .

#BlogExodus: Grow

I know today has grown entirely too long because I am just now, at slightly after 10 p.m., lighting the yahrzeit candle for my grandfather, who died 32 years ago tomorrow... and having no luck with either the wick or the match.

I wasn’t home to light the candle earlier in the evening because I was facilitating the NYC meeting of FORCE: Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered , a grassroots organization that offers information, resources, and support to individuals and families affected by hereditary cancer.

Ironically (or perhaps not), my grandfather died from BRCA-related metastatic prostate cancer before “BRCA-related metastatic prostate cancer” was in the lexicon. For the last seven-plus years, though, it’s been part of my lexicon, as I’ve worked to raise awareness about the prevalence of BRCA mutations in Ashkenazi Jewish families – and most especially how they can lurk in the background, undetected for generations.

Making the tough decisions to undergo multiple surgeries and long recoveries to prevent cancer and ensure my genetics would not determine my destiny has helped me grow.

Learning the ins and outs of these mutations, advocating on behalf of the community affected by them, and offering advice and information to women (and men) following me on this path has helped me grow.

Perhaps most of all, the warm, wonderful embrace of others in the hereditary cancer community has helped me grow and enriched my life in untold ways – ways I could not have ever imagined back when BRCA wasn’t part of the lexicon.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima , this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nisan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Friday, March 30, corresponding to the Hebrew date 15 Nisan 5778. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts .

#BlogExodus: Cleanse

After yesterday’s buying spree at the Bryn Mawr-Wellesley Book Sale (eight books for $10), I needed to clean up my Want-to-Read list on goodreads.com to add the new purchases:

1. How Doctors Think, by Jerome Groopman, M.D. (I’ve browsed this book many times, but something else always won out in the get-it-today category…until yesterday, when it could be had for $1.)
2. Midaq Alley, by Naguib Mahfouz (recommended to me by my father)
3. Woe is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to Better English in Plain English, by Patricia T. O’Conner (Another book I’ve browsed often, and now am glad to own.)
4. Bel Canto , by Ann Patchett (recommended to me by my sister)
5. The Medical Detectives, Volume II, by Berton Roueché (I read the first volume several years ago and didn’t even know there was a second volume…until yesterday.)
6. Mothering Sunday: A Romance, by Graham Swift (recommended to me by my sister)
7. Eats Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, by Lynne Truss (Another volume I’ve picked up many times, but never purchased.)
8. On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction, by William Zinsser (This book seems to be a volume no writer or editor should be without.)

Although I’m not sure I’ll make it through all these books in this calendar year, I’m well on the way to beating out last year’s woeful showing.

Forget about cleaning for Passover….I’m going to read!

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima , this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nisan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Friday, March 30, corresponding to the Hebrew date 15 Nisan 5778. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts .

#BlogExodus: Bless

At 85, my dad doesn’t come into the city as often as in the past. Instead, my sister and I have been visiting our “country estate” about once each month, including this weekend.

Due to her business travel, she’s already there, occupying our “suite” that includes a bedroom smartly outfitted with two twin beds, like when we were kids, and our own bathroom. Not a bad set-up at all. I’ll travel there tomorrow morning and our plan is to go right from the train station in New Brunswick to the annual Bryn Mawr-Wellesley Book Sale at the Princeton Country Day School.

According to the book sale’s website, “We specialize in top-quality hardback and paperback fiction, non-fiction, academic, university press, and rare books, all sold at bargain prices,” which means the day will be a guaranteed good time for we three book-lovers. Experience tells me that after we’ve had our fill of books, we’ll perk up with coffee and a shared “sweetmeat” at Small World Coffee or Panera , before heading back to the estate and then out to dinner.

As my dad would say, “A good time will be had by all,” and he would, as usual, be right.

Indeed, we are blessed – all of us.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nisan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Friday, March 30, corresponding to the Hebrew date 15 Nisan 5778. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts.

These Memories are as Sweet as Butter

It’s true what the rabbi said this morning during the yizkor portion of the Simchat Torah/Sh’mini Atzeret service: We miss loved ones who are gone every day, but all the more on holidays and happy occasions.

His words reminded me of these pictures I took last Saturday.

It’s an elevator in a building on 91^st Street in Manhattan, but it’s exactly the same as the one in my grandparents’ building in Sunnyside, Queens, in the 1970s and 80s (and probably long before then).

When I posted the photos on Facebook, I added this comment, tagging my sister and one of our cousins: Amy and Ted: Check out these photos from the elevator I rode in today. Do they take you back to your childhood??

And then this conversation ensued:

Ted: Nice!

Amy: I am afraid of that elevator even in a picture...

Ted: Who gets the New York toast? (A delicacy from childhood, it was toast spread with Breakstone’s unsalted whipped butter that was leftover from my grandparents’ breakfast. Aptly named – and quickly devoured – by their New Jersey grandchildren, nothing tasted quite like it!)

Me: Whoever gets there first! But beware the moldy leftovers in the margarine container in the Frigidare! (My grandmother called every refrigerator a Frigidare, even if it was a Westinghouse or a Kenmore.)

Memories truly are a blessing and these are as sweet as Breakstone’s unsalted whipped butter on New York toast.

My Takeaway From This High Holiday Season

Many times, in recent weeks -- for a variety of reason -- I found myself thinking, “Ughhh, I’ve had it with the Jewish people,” and as the High Holidays drew closer, I found myself less and less inclined to attend the marathon of services I knew was around the corner.

Tonight, in an email, a friend asked, “I am curious if you eventually did sit out all the Holy Days. If so, how did that work for you? If not did you find worship satisfying?"

Here’s what I told him:

I sat out erev Rosh HaShanah and the first day. I did, however, attend the second day, the service at which I am honored each year with an opportunity to chant Torah. Usually my dad comes with me to that service, but with his imminent move (the packers are coming tomorrow, the movers on Tuesday) that wasn't feasible this year. However, he was able to watch the live stream, which he enjoyed quite a bit.

I did not attend any Yom Kippur services, but I did watch a bit of the live stream from Shaaray Tefila, including yesterday's sermon, as well as some of the Facebook live stream from my parents' congregation in New Jersey. I was OK not attending services and felt as though I was taking care of me, which is something I don't do very well or very often. Also, as a regular minyan-goer, I know that prayer is not easy and that it takes hard work. With everything else going on at the moment, I did not have the bandwidth necessary to make my worship truly meaningful.

I am looking forward to festival morning services on Sukkot and Simchat Torah, when it will be safe to go back into the sanctuary. I love Hallel -- and the switch to mashiv haruach umorid hagashem. After that, things will go back to "normal" in our weekly minyan -- and we'll start all over again with B'reishit in Torah study.

But first, our family will close the door for the last time at 12 Webster Road on Tuesday, after which I think I'll have a huge sense of relief that the stress, anxiety, and anticipation surrounding the move will finally be a thing of the past for all of us. I hope that we'll all enjoy wonderful new beginnings and many celebrations in 5778.

In his response, my friend shared a perspective I had not previously considered: “What a great reflection on skipping what many Jews do, and what joyful anticipation of doing what many Jews don't!” Regarding my dad’s move from our childhood home, he wrote, “In memory, 12 Webster Road will always be yours. It continues to shape the you who you are!”

Thanks to our email exchange (and the insights of my friend), I’ve arrived at my takeaway for this High Holiday season: I truly love Jewish living and learning 51 weeks of the year -- and I should revel in the joy they bring me, and not feel guilty about the rest.

#BlogElul 5777: End

We’re approaching the end of an era at 12 Webster Road and my heart aches. Just typing these words makes me teary, even though I know the most important things in life aren’t, in fact, things or spaces. Nonetheless, I (ever emotional, reminiscent, and sensitive) am sad.

But, in a renewed effort to make lemonade from lemons, I am reminded that we’ll also see the end of:

1. Daddy waiting up until 4 a.m. for the plow guy to clear the driveway after a heavy snowstorm
2. A neighbor who doesn’t respect boundaries (or forsythia bushes)
3. Watching the house next door dilapidate
4. Worry about every creak and leak, the water spots, the water heater, and the banging in the wall we sometimes hear when the toilet flushes

As Maria says as she sets off from the abbey, bound for the Von Trapp home, “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.” Although this window, of course, belongs to Daddy, I think it offers all of us a nice view into a new phase of his life – and our life as a family.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima , this #BlogElul post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Elul, which precede the Jewish High Holidays and traditionally serve as a time of reflection and spiritual preparation for the new year.

#BlogElul 5777: Love

I love this kid...

and I can't wait to spend more time with him in the new year.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima , this #BlogElul post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Elul, which precede the Jewish High Holidays and traditionally serve as a time of reflection and spiritual preparation for the new year.