Music and Memories: Where Do They Take You?

Recently, I started the New York Times 30-Day Challenge, and this past week, one of the non-exercise day challenges was this:

Choose a song you love that you want to share with another person and ask them to do the same. Tell them why you are sharing it — does it make you think of them? Does it explain how you feel? Or does it bring back a great memory? Don’t just listen and forget it. Take time to talk about it. This is a great challenge to help you connect with children, but you also can share it with a romantic partner or best friend.

My first thought was this Facebook post from March of 2019:

The power of music: This morning Hall and Oates' "Kiss on My List" was playing in Dunkin Donuts while I waited on line. Without missing a beat, I was back at Lafayette College, it was 1983...a Saturday night and Zete was spinning disks. My shoes were sticking to the dance floor, friends were nearby, and all was right with the world.

Then yesterday, during the weekly pre-Shabbat Zoom gathering of the JCC Association team, one of my colleagues, a former song leader, chose “Blowin’ in the Wind” as this week’s song. He described how he first heard it at home as a third-grader in 1989 and rightly noted that the sentiment and the lyrics are as apt today as they were when they were written back in 1963. While he sang, accompanying himself on the guitar, I refrained from typing into the chat that the song and I are the same age!

In fact, there are many songs whose opening notes magically whoosh me back to places and people from my past.

Play Billy Joel’s “My Life” and I’m immediately in Mrs. Ritter’s brown, two-door Plymouth Volare. Susie, my friend Amy’s sister, is driving, and a bunch of us are squished together in the back seat, heading home from the annual Franklin-Piscataway homecoming game. The radio’s blasting, and it’s as though Billy Joel is talking directly to us, high schoolers just starting to find our voices and try out our wings:

I don't need you to worry for me 'cause I'm alright
I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home
I don't care what you say anymore this is my life
Go ahead with your own life leave me alone

The same thing happens with “Evergreen,” but instead of in a car, I’m in Bound Brook, one town over from home, at my high school’s yearbook signing dinner, slow dancing with Ross Ignall. (Ironically, that year, the yearbooks weren’t back from the printer in time for the event, so we all signed staple bound booklets, specially assembled for the occasion.)

The opening bars of “You Are” by Lionel Richie are from the same era, and those notes whisk me to Easton, Pennsylvania. It’s freshman year and I’m in Ruef Hall, Room 307, with its matching comforters, curtains and rug—the most coordinated room on our floor and maybe in the entire dorm. It’s Saturday night, the music’s mellow, and my roommate Terry and I are chilling, waiting for the clock to strike 11 so we can head out for the evening—to Zete first, then maybe a stop at another fraternity house, or, to my favorite spot, the basement of Marquis Hall, to sit in an oversized faux leather booth at “The Leopard’s Lair,” for French fries and diet Pepsi. 

Two musical pieces, though, predate Lionel, Billy, Daryl, John, and Barbra.

Thanks to WQXR, this one came blasting into the living room at 12 Webster Road when there was still a stereo and speakers along the wall where a piano later sat. All four of us were in the room at the time, and as if on a whim, my mother said to the elementary school-aged Amy and me: “Does this song remind you of another one?” A few minutes of quiet listening, and… “Hatikvah!” I shouted, surprised at having made the connection to a song from an album of Israeli songs that played often on our stereo.

Naomi Shemer’s classic, “Jerusalem of Gold,” was another of those Israeli songs. It quickly became such a favorite that I chose it as the closing song for my bat mitzvah service. For many years, hearing its soulful refrain took me back to that night more than four decades ago. More recently, it’s brought me to the back patio of the King David Hotel from whence I caught a first glimpse of the walls of the Old City in 2004—on the first night of my first-ever visit to Jerusalem. A longtime URJ board member, Arthur Heyman, z”l, had accompanied me to the spot, creating what was then, and especially is now, a sweet memory indeed.

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.

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.

#BlogElul: Remember

Tonight I was blessed to sit among friends of longstanding and reminisce.

Just being together, we remembered so much: laughter, camaraderie, teamwork, mishaps, escapades, challenges, hotels, idiosyncrasies, long hours, short fuses, dinners, lunches, meetings, back offices, pipe and drape, spreadsheets, coffee (and stiffer drinks)… The list is endless.

Most of all, we remembered how lucky we were to come together with each other and other good people to do meaningful, successful work in the world.

May the new year bring each of us that same kind of luck and companionship, and years from now, may we look back on those days that are yet to be, remembering them -- and each other -- with as much fondness, warmth, gusto, and love as we did tonight.

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 precedes the Jewish High Holidays and traditionally serves as a time of reflection and spiritual preparation for the new year.

That Time When Uncle Irv Came to Torah Study

I think it might have been the ripe, red strawberries on Cantor Dubinsky's milestone birthday cake that brought Uncle Irv to Torah study last Shabbat.

During minyan, she'd chanted from Kedoshim, beginning with verse 23:

When you enter the land and plant any tree for food, you shall regard its fruit as forbidden. Three years it shall be forbidden for you, not to be eaten. In the fourth year all its fruit shall be set aside for jubilation before the Eternal; and only in the fifth  year may you use its fruit -- that its yield to you may be increased. I the Eternal am your God.

After we'd all enjoyed the cake and the celebration, our Torah study conversation started with a discussion of trees and fruit -- and the difference between letting ripe fruit drop to the ground versus not letting it grow in the first place. All of a sudden, it was as though Uncle Irv was sitting next to me in that already crowded classroom. I remembered the bed of strawberries Amy and I planted and watered under his firm tutelage -- with a row of alternating marigolds and bachelor buttons in front, one way organic gardeners keep the bunnies away.

How excited we were when green shoots, followed by vines and then small white flowers finally appeared. And, oh how disappointed when he instructed us to nip off every last one of the delicate, yellow-centered flowers.

"Why??" we whined, less than thrilled by the whole gardening thing he was trying to teach us. According to Uncle Irv, it would ensure a bountiful crop of sweet berries in a few years.

Who knew we were learning Torah right there in the backyard?

ICYMI: Tribute to Theodore Bikel

Photo: jewishjournal.com

Hop over to ReformJudaism.org to read my latest blog post, a tribute to Theodore Bikel, the prolific actor, musician, and nurturer of souls.  I will miss him, but am grateful for the memories of family and music he's left me.

May Things "Peace" Themselves Together

This is the yahrzeit candle I lit on Thursday night for my grandmother, who died in 1991 at the supposed age of 91.  (We believed she was as old as the century, because that's what she'd always told us.  Only when we obtained her social security records, did we learn that she actually was born in 1896, nearly a full year before my grandfather.  Despite the time period in which they met as neighbors in the same lower east side tenement building, she was neither a flapper nor a "cougar," and, it was then -- I would guess -- that she "revised" her date of birth.)

Although I always called her "Grandma," her name was Fanny.  According to Kolatch, "Fannie," "Fanny," and "Fannye" all are pet forms of Frances.  About Frances, Kolatch writes this:

From the Anglo-Saxon, meaning "free, liberal."  The feminine form of the masculine Francis.  Frances actually means "free-woman," while Francis means "free-man."  The origin of these names dates back to the Franks, a confederacy of German tribes who for a long time battled with the Romans before settling permanently in Gaul, in the fifth century.  France took its name from the Franks.  France, Francesca, Francis, Francoise, and Frania are variant forms.  Fania, Fannie, Fanny, Fannye, Fran, Francine, Frani, Frankie, and Ranny are pet forms.

More fitting was what she would have referred to as her "Jewish name" -- Frume, which Kolatch says is a variant form of Fruma.  It derives from the Yiddish, meaning pious one, and indeed, although not especially pious in the traditional way, she was extremely devoted to her family.  As a young woman, she and a sister left Vienna in 1921, and worked tirelessly in New York City's garment industry, saving enough money to bring the rest of their siblings and their parents, all of them escaping increasing economic hardship and growing anti-Semitism.

Perhaps as a carryover from her work as a milliner, my grandmother oft-repeated this expression during challenging times:  "Don't worry...things will piece themselves together."  I bring to mind this phrase when needed in my own life, and especially now, for the sake of Israel, do I pray that "things will "peace" themselves together."

A Charming Keepsake of a Charmed Life

After reading Jenna Weissman Joselit's recent story in the Forward about charm bracelets, I unwrapped mine from the tissue paper in which, as she rightly points out, it "languish[es] in a drawer, [rather] than adorn[s] a wrist."

Nonetheless, my beloved keepsake remains as pristine and shiny as it was on my bat mitzvah day, when I received it, two charms already dangling from its sterling silver links.  The first, a small, flat disk, declares "A Date to Remember" above a small banner on which is engraved my birthday:  1-29-63. On the back are my initials, beautifully etched in the fanciest of scripts.  The bracelet's second charm, a mezuzah, is a small rectangular box adorned with both a Jewish star and the decalogue, engraved on the back with my bat mitzvah date:  2-6-76.  A third charm, a chai, was a gift from a friend whose name is engraved on one "leg" of the hey.  My name, engraved on the other "leg," with the date, 2-6-76, across the top rounds out the bracelet's "inaugural" charms.

An assortment of additional charms marks the milestones of my teenage years: my sweet 16, confirmation, and induction into the National Honor Society.  In between are souvenirs from family vacations:  a lobster cage from a week in Boothbay Harbor, ME, a beach shanty from a trip to Rockport, MA, and a Mickey Mouse charm from my sole visit to Disneyland.

More than milestone markers or souvenirs, though, the charms -- individually and collectively -- serve to remind me of the charmed life, overflowing with warmth, well-being, and love that my parents worked so hard to ensure for my sister and me.  Lucky for me, memories of that charmed life live in my heart, too, relieving me of the need to wear the bracelet on my wrist, where it only would "get in the way of...nonstop texting and tapping."

The Presence and the Loss

A friend, after reading my annual pre-Pesach letter to my mother, had this to say:

Poignant piece.  The ache never fully goes away.  Yizkor on Pesach was a wise decision of our rabbinic forebears.  We feel the presence...and the loss...of our dear ones most keenly on this festival.

Indeed, I felt the presence and the loss intensely today...

This morning, having made it uptown with time for a leisurely walk from the bus stop to the synagogue, I took this photo along the way:

The morning came full circle when, during the Yizkor portion of the service, the rabbi read "We Remember Them," the well known poem by Sylvan Kamens and Rabbi Jack Riemer:

At the rising of the sun and at its going down, we remember them.
At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember them.
At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember them.
At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer, we remember them.
At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember them.
At the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as we remember them. 

When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember them.
When we have joy we crave to share, we remember them.
When we have decisions that are difficult to make, we remember them.
When we have achievements that are based on theirs, we remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as we remember them. 

Today, a day truly marked by the opening of the buds and the rebirth of spring, did I feel intensely the presence and the loss of so many, but none more keenly than my mom's.  Indeed, it is her presence and her loss that live in me, each and every day, from one spring to the next, from season to season for all time.

Guess What? We're One of Those Families

Dear The Mums,

I can't believe that I haven't written to you since June, when Ian graduated from P.S. 41.  He's already been at Lab Middle School for nearly a month and even though it's going to be close to 80 degrees tomorrow in New York City, today is October 1.  Breast cancer awareness month is upon us, the world suddenly is awash in pink, and with the color adorning everything from yogurt lids to coffee cups, tee-shirts, and football helmets comes an emotional roller coaster of memory, and yes, many "what ifs," a few of which nagged at me last night.

Barbara Walters moderated a BRCA awareness symposium at Central Synagogue that was geared specifically for the Jewish community, where the incidence of BRCA gene mutations is 10 times greater than in the general population.  (Too much in-breeding in the shtetl, I always say.)  The event was the outgrowth of a High Holiday awareness campaign during which posters with BRCA information were sent to every Reform and Conservative congregation in the country in the hopes that they'd be displayed in lobbies and restrooms where they could be seen and read by worshipers throughout the High Holiday season.

Last night's panel featured four physician-researchers from top-notch institutions, each of whom has devoted his or her studies and clinical practice to breast and/or ovarian cancer and thus is an expert in the ins and outs of hereditary breast and ovarian cancer syndrome, which often results because of a BRCA mutation within a family:

• Carmel Cohen, M.D., Professor of Obstetrics, Gynecology and Reproductive Science, Mt. Sinai School of Medicine
• Susan Domchek, M.D., Basser Professor in Oncology, Abramson Cancer Center, University of Pennsylvania and Executive Director, Basser Research Center
• Noah Kauff, M.D., Director, Ovarian Cancer Screening and Prevention, Gynecology Service, Department of Surgery, Memorial-Sloan Kettering Cancer Center
• Julia Smith, M.D., Ph.D., Director, NYU Cancer Institute's Breast Cancer Screening and Prevention Program and and Director of the Lynne Cohen breast cancer preventive care program at NYU Langone Medical Center

Guess what, The Mums?  We're one of those families.  But, because Aunt Claire was diagnosed with breast cancer at about the same time that Mary-Claire King was discovering the BRCA1 gene and the havoc it can wreak in families where a mutation in the gene is passed from one generation to the next, it was too soon for her to be tested.  By the time a mammogram uncovered your triple negative breast cancer in 2008, you certainly should have been tested for the BRCA2 mutation we now know you carried.  Why your oncologist didn't suggest it, we'll never know...

In any event, there was a terrific turnout, and it looked as though most of the sanctuary was filled.  A classical rendition of Hinei Ma Tov opened the program, sung by a woman with a lovely voice, accompanied by violin and piano.  Peter Rubinstein, who's going to retire at the end of this year, I think, followed with a few remarks.  Two congregants from Central, Mindy Gray, who with her husband provided funding to establish the Basser Center in memory of her sister, Faith Basser, who died of ovarian cancer at 44, and Stacey Sager, a WABC-NY reporter who had both breast and ovarian cancer and isn't yet 50, also spoke briefly after which the panel discussion began.  Barbara Walters was a wonderful moderator, and there was even time at the end for two or three questions from the audience -- which we submitted on index cards.

From my perspective, the evening's most important take-aways were these:

• If you're Jewish and have relatives with breast and/or ovarian cancer, talk to your doctor about genetic counseling and testing.
• Don't be afraid to pursue genetic counseling and testing.  In most cases, insurance will cover the cost for individuals of Ashkenazi Jewish descent.  Knowledge is power and this power, as I know from my own experience with HBOC syndrome, saves lives.
• If you experience any of these symptoms for a period of a week or more, go see your doctor and ask him or her to prove that you don't have ovarian cancer: bloating, abdominal pain, a full feeling after eating, or urinary symptoms that include increased urgency or frequency.
• If you find yourself in need of medical professionals who are experts in the world of hereditary cancer syndrome, they're most often located at large medical facilities in urban settings. Go after them.

I do have one criticism of the event and it is this:  Although we heard from two women whose lives have been touched (albeit in different ways) by hereditary breast and ovarian cancer, this was an awareness event and there was no previvor voice among the speakers.  Such a voice, I believe, would have illustrated the perspective of someone who was able to use the knowledge gained through genetic counseling and testing to change intentionally the course of her own life or those of others in her family.  Just think about the possibilities had you or Amy or I attended an event like this six or eight or 10 years ago.  Who knows how having knowledge about BRCA mutations back then might have changed our family's experience...

So that's the latest from here, The Mums. It's late and I'm tired so I'm going to close for now, but I won't wait so long to write again.

Miss you...xoxo,
~ Boo!

P.S.  As a volunteer outreach coordinator for FORCE, which was one of  several participating organizations last night, I did a good bit of work to publicize the symposium, mostly on social media.  In doing so, I had a lot of email correspondence with Becca Mueller, a genetic counselor from the Basser Center, and it was great to meet her in person last night.  What's more, she put me in touch with the blogger for the Abramson Cancer Center blog, and I was able to write this post for them, which went live today.

Our Circle of Remembering: A #BlogElul Post

We Jews are a remembering people.  I think it’s in our DNA.

Each week in welcoming Shabbat, we are commanded to “shamor v’zachor”— to “keep” and to “remember.”  Later in the service, we are told of the various ways to love Adonai, “Thus [we] shall remember to observe all [God’s] commandments and to be holy….”  Still later, we remember that God redeemed us from slavery in Egypt, and, one more time, before the Kaddish, we remember those whose finite flame has been consumed and is no more.

Each year we observe Yom HaZikaron, remembering the Israeli soldiers who died in battle, just as we remember and retell the story of our Exodus from Egypt annually and, seven weeks later, recall the presence of our entire community atop Mt. Sinai.

Is it any wonder, then, that, individually, I do my share of remembering?

In this, my very first blog post ever, I remember Chaim Glasberg, a man I never knew.

Here, I remember Tante Mina, a cousin I never knew.  (Don’t ask why earlier generations referred to a cousin as Tante…I don’t know the answer.)

In this post, I recall visits to the cemetery before the High Holidays.  It’s ever more poignant now that my mother’s there instead of shuttling us from grave to grave.

My memories of Mrs. Steinberg—oh, how I miss her!—were recorded here, just a day after her funeral this past March.

Blogging’s not the same without comments from Larry Kaufman, and here’s my tribute to him.

And my mother?  Nothing’s the same without her, and I’ve written too many posts to remember each one distinctly.  This one, though, from early in my remembering of her, quite fittingly includes this comment from Larry Kaufman:

Jane, I lost my mother eighteen years ago, and my father more than fifty years ago, and the meditation before Kaddish that continues to resonate for me is #6 in Mishkan T’filah, especially these lines:
“…those who live no more echo still within our thoughts and words, and what they did is part of what we have become.”
You have the special consolation of knowing that what your mother did is part of what many of us have become.
May these words from Rabbi Levy stand alongside those you quote from Rabbi Greenberg in bringing you comfort and healing.

In the end, I think it all comes back to “shamor v’zachor”—to keep and to remember; “zachor v’shamor”—to remember and to keep.  We keep them close so we can remember them.  We remember them so we can keep them close.  Just as they were part of our circle of life, so, too, are they part of our circle of remembering.

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

Are You Shayna Maydelach or Shayna Punim?

Photo:  www.garysullivanonline.com

As I noted the other day on my Facebook page, we're having a heatwave in New York City.  It's the kind of weather that used to prompt my grandparents to set up a bridge table in the bedroom of their Sunnyside Queens apartment where, with the door closed, the window-unit air conditioner could actually do its job.

There they'd spend time reading, playing cards and just keeping cool.  Unwilling to"light the stove," as my grandmother always said, in such raging heat, she would use whatever ingredients she had on hand to prepare cool, no-cook meals.  Often that meant a concoction of cut up vegetables with cottage cheese and sour cream that she called chazerei.  Imagine my surprise when, many years later,  I learned that chazerei really means junk, garbage, pig's feed or anything of little value, and is derived from the Yiddish word for pig -- chazer.

I've blogged about my grandmother before, describing her in a previous post as "someone who saw Kaiser Wilhelm II ride into town on a white horse, remembered the sinking of the Titanic, watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon, and still described air conditioning on a hot day as a mechaiya."  When my friend Rebecca posted a comment in response to that blog post, I not only chuckled, but also learned that I'm not alone in occasionally misinterpreting the meaning of a Yiddish word:

"When I was in ulpan, our teacher asked if anyone knew the word for 'air-conditioning.'

She about fell out of her chair, laughing, when I proudly answered 'mechaiya!'"

Another friend, Merry, is guilty of the same offense.  As she wrote recently, "I grew up thinking my 'Jewish' name was Shayna Maydelach!"

Hey, wait a minute... Isn't every Jewish girl named Shayna Maydelach or Shayna Punim?!

#BlogExodus: Retelling

Even as we prepare for the telling and retelling of our Exodus from Egypt--cleaning the house, tossing the chametz, shopping for matzah, cooking a brisket, and chopping apples for charoset--the world outside is telling and retelling us of the coming of spring.

This year, may our retellings be meaningful, fun and evocative of joyful retellings in days gone by.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Nisan leading up to Passover 5773.

I'd Know Your Dairy Dishes Anywhere

Dear Mrs. Steinberg,

That bagel and white fish salad over there was my dinner tonight and represents the one I would have eaten at your house yesterday had we not had to head directly back to New Jersey from Baltimore.  Of course, it’s not as though I never ate a bagel in your house…and in fact, I’d know your dairy dishes anywhere.  Who could forget that big, abstract orange flower in the middle of the plate? 

There are so many other things we can’t forget…and reminisced about all of them on our ride down to Chevy Chase on Tuesday and on the way home yesterday, too.

Amy kept reminding us about the parrot (I think it was a parakeet, though), whose cage was on a television cart that she loved to push around your apartment in Georgian Woods. She couldn’t have been much more than three or four at the time.  That was during the same era that she asked you, in the middle of Snider’s Market, if watermelon had nitrates, and when Lipton made flavored instant iced tea that you and my mom loved—orange for you, lime for her.

Later, when you moved to Winding Waye Lane, there was Ari, the three-legged dog, Barbara’s rainbow-themed room with the bright orange walls, Dr. Steinberg and my dad dozing in the family room, and, of course, bagels and noodle kugel served on your dairy dishes whenever we’d visit from New Jersey for the weekend.  There also were the weekly Monday night phone calls with my mom that began at 11 p.m.—when the long-distance rates went down—and continued at that hour even after unlimited long-distance became the norm.

Of course there was your gas-guzzling Chevy Impala, too.  It was the car you drove to pick up a friend and me from the Shoreham Americana Hotel where we were attending a model United Nations (our high school was the German Democratic Republic) so we could meet Heidi, who’d been born just a few weeks earlier.  I’ll never forget the first time I saw her sleeping in the playpen in your family room that afternoon and what a treat it was to hold her and feed her a bottle before you had to take us back to the hotel.

More recently and with button-bursting pride, I know you told many of your Hadassah friends about my job as Eric Yoffie’s writer, and not once during the last 18 months did you and I have a conversation in which you didn’t tell me how glad you were that I’d opted for a prophylactic mastectomy and autologous reconstruction, avoiding the risks and hassles that can come along with implants.

Yesterday before we headed to the cemetery, Heidi told us that she envisions you and my mom together in the world to come, having picked up your conversation right where you left off in this world, just about three years ago this month.  If she’s right—and I hope she is—you’ve got a bit of catching up to do, which no doubt you’ll do in some late night chats in the coming weeks.  Once you’re caught up, I’d like to think you’ll head out to do some shopping, and can easily see the two of you together in Pier One choosing new place mats and matching napkins, drinking glasses, or even a new coffee table—provided it’s all on sale, of course!

Whatever you and my mom are up to, though, I wish both of you eternal peace in the shadow of God’s wings. I miss you both and am glad you have each other.

xoxo,

~ Jane.

Keepsakes From a Life

I spent most of this afternoon cleaning out my mother's desk.  Although there was much that could be tossed from the drawers--old buttons, grocery receipts, newspaper clippings, pink ribbons (oh if only she'd known), countless pens advertising Zithromax, Procardia XL and the UAHC Department of Adult Jewish Growth, as well as business cards from clergy and now-defunct stores and start-ups--many items remain neatly tucked away there, keepsakes from her life.

Of course there are photos.  Many of my mom--as an infant, a child, a college student, a young married woman, a new mother, and a new grandmother--filled one folder.  Images of  other relatives--some from decades ago--filled another.  My sister, Ian and I, mostly as babies and in classic school photo poses are well represented, too.

Keeping company with the photos is my parents' wedding invitation and many mazel tov telegrams sent care of the Free Synagogue of Flushing, where they were married just a few years after my mother attended a friend's confirmation there.  Also in that drawer are the announcement of my birth, the program from her college graduation, a similar booklet from one of my father's master degree ceremonies, my mother's Gratz College valedictory remarks from the spring of 2001, a d'var Torah she delivered at a long-ago editorial board meeting of RJ magazine, and the booklet from her 50th high school reunion.  (The senior yearbook photo reproduced in that booklet bears a striking resemblance to this writer.)

An embroidered LWV name tag and one from the NJWHVC of the UAHC made the cut as did her college ID, her first driver's license (issued by the State of Maryland in the 1950s, when my parents lived at historic 105 Council Street in Frederick), and a small yellow disk etched with her name and birth date, which my father identified as a children's ID tag, required during WWII.  The newspaper notice of my parents' marriage, a few notes, cards and clippings from her work as an early childhood educator six decades ago, and a campaign button for Adlai Stevenson, as well as a handwritten letter from the politician remain in her desk as well.

Two items from her wallet so touched my heart they're now tucked into my own wallet.

The first, a light-blue three by five card, folded and refolded, taped and re-taped is printed thusly:

The Gift of Blessing

May Adonai Bless you and keep you 

safe...

May Adonai cause the light of the Divine 

Presence to shine upon you and be gracious to you...

May Adonai be favorable to you and 

give you wholeness, completeness and 

Peace.  Amen.

(Name Your Blessings Here)

Bob

Jane and David

Amy and John

Claire

Family and Dear Friends

The second, a one-inch by two-inch clipping from a Jewish newspaper (I presume), will surprise no one who ever studied Torah with my mother.  That she saw fit to carry it constantly with her speaks volumes about her love of Torah, Jewish learning, and Moses.

Torah haiku

by Ron Kaplan (Is it this Ron Kaplan?)

Va'ethanan

Even dead, Moses

can't enter Israel.  Sad

fate for a great man. 

And yes, as one of her rabbis suggested to me soon after her death, I believe she's reveling in hakn[ing] Adonai a tshaynik about what a raw deal Adonai dealt to Moses.

My Yizkor Friend

Although technically it's not a blog post, this Ten Minutes of Torah essay appeared on Thursday.  I'm sharing it here in case you didn't catch it last week.

Wishing you brightness and blessings in 2013!

#BlogElul 10: Memory

In my mind, Rabbi Sylvan Kamens’ heartfelt poem, We Remember Them, is as much a part of Yom Kippur as is our break-the-fast a few hours later:

At the rising of the sun and at its going down,
We remember them.
At the blowing of the wind and the chill of the winter,
We remember them.
At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring,
We remember them.
At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of Autumn,
We remember them.
At the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live,
For they are now part of us as we remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,

we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,
We remember them.
When we have joy we crave to share,
We remember them.
When we have decisions that are difficult to make,
We remember them.
When we have achievements that are based on theirs,

We remember them.
As long as we live they too will live,
For they are now a part of us as we remember them.

Now, though, there is a different rhythm by which I remember:

At the coming of the seder, I remember her.

On what will always be her birthday, I remember her.

On the anniversary of her death, I remember her.

In the company of amazing Jewish women, I remember her.

On September 11^th, I remember her.

On Fourth of July, I remember her.

But mostly “just because” I remember her.

Catching Up With The Mums

Dear The Mums,

I can’t believe that it’s been nearly a year since my last letter to you, but the calendar doesn’t lie. Although there are still a few Sundays before the first seder, I’ll use a bit of this one to catch you up on some of what’s going on here.

For a variety of reasons, Amy and I decided that we’re going to make this year’s seder in NYC.  It’ll be a first for all of us, but should work out just fine.  I’ll do the brisket, charoset and maybe some tzimmes, and Amy will do a chicken or turkey breast and the desserts.  As always, Aunt Claire—who moved in December to a new apartment in Pompton Plains—will make the soup and matzo balls.  Of course, we’ll use the bright yellow haggadot, and I’ll finally get to use the beautiful Lenox seder plate that was a wedding gift more than two decades ago.  Most important, though, we’ll all be together.  We know that you’ll be there, as you always are, doing all the duh-duh-duh-duh-duhs at the end of every verse of Dayenu. 

I know you were with us last weekend, too, at the Diana S. Herman Memorial Scholar-in-Residence weekend at Temple Emanu-El.  When the day started out wet and dreary, I thought maybe you’d forgotten about getting us some good weather, but by the afternoon, it was bright and sunny and I knew you’d remembered.  Elliott was the speaker and, as usual, he was great.  He talked about the religious, social and architectural factors that influenced synagogues in America from about 1850 to the present.  You would have loved it!  One more thing about Elliott:  As of the end of this coming week, he’s leaving his job at the Union.  I’ll be sad when he’s not around in the office everyday (and will miss his infectious chortle and great grin), but I know he’s moving on to new and exciting things and that wherever he lands, they’ll be lucky to have him (and his M&Ms).

Speaking of moving on, Debbie Bravo’s leaving, too.  Come the summer, she’s going out to be the senior rabbi at Sue Feldman’s congregation on Long Island.  I’ll miss her, too, and hope to stay in touch.  There’s a congregational meeting this afternoon (Daddy will be there) to approve the board’s recommendation to hire a new rabbi.  New is definitely the operative word here as he’s going to be ordained by HUC in New York in early May. 

This is the weekend that you’d usually come in and stay overnight with me for the Union’s Executive Committee meeting.  The meeting’s actually going on as I write this letter to you, but the governance structure is changing and it’s now known as the Oversight Committee.  There are lots of other changes underway at the Union these days and it’s definitely a different place than it was when you were on the board.  Recently, someone I know made the apt analogy that we’re all working for a new company—with new jobs and a new boss.  Change is hard (and more than a little stressful), and I am muddling through as best I can.  I know that you’d know just the right thing to say about all of this, and I wish you were here to say it.  The best I can do on my own is to remember how at other times like this you’d always remind me how Grandma would say that “things will piece themselves out.”  I hope that will be true this time around, too.

Now, though, I’ve got to go take care of some mundane tasks--laundry and balancing my checkbook among them.  I’ve also got a paper to write (now that I’ve finished editing someone else’s—which I took on a few weeks ago as a freelance project) and some reading to do.  If there’s any time left, I’d love to veg out on the couch, peruse the Sunday paper, and go to bed early.  I’d best get busy.

I hope that you’re enjoying all the books and conversations at your Yeshivah shel Mal'ah, where I’m sure you’re still debating with God about Moses being denied entry into the Promised Land.  Especially while everything here is a whirlwind of change, it’s nice to know that where you are, some things never change.  Miss you…wish you were here.

xoxo,

~ Boo!

Where are the Hippies?

Today's prompt:  Write about the first (or second) memory that comes to mind when you see this image:

Photo:  Battelle.org

An ashtray, one box of Larks, one of Parliaments and two glasses of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine sat on the table in the kitchen. Amidst the avocado green appliances, two young women sat with them, alternately sipping the cloyingly sweet wine and, chins pointing upward, exhaling hazy blue smoke ceiling-ward. Only now do I realize how young they really were:  one, not yet 30, was the mother of three daughters; the other, at 36, was the mother of two, my sister and me.

This was their late afternoon custom—developed to fill the time after work, when we girls were at Brownies and it was too soon to start dinner. Or perhaps, it was the friends’ defense against a crazy world. Richard Nixon was president, body counts dominated the nightly news, and Helen Reddy, Peter Paul and Mary, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, and the Kingston Trio were the musical backdrop to our lives.

Me (interrupting the peace of the women's afternoon ritual): “Ma, I told Nancy I’m going to be a hippie for Halloween and she said that God doesn’t love hippies.”

Ma: “God loves everyone—especially hippies."

Me:  "Why does God love hippies?"

Ma:  "Because they want to end the war.”

Me: “Then I’m going to be a hippie for Halloween.”

Where are today's hippies who want to end today’s wars?!

Remembe(RED) is the memoir meme of The Red Dress Club.  Thanks for reading...and feel free to offer thoughts, ideas and/or constructive criticism.  I appreciate hearing what you have to say.