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.

This Memorial Day I'm Remembering Major Stuart Adam Wolfer, z"l

I first learned about JWB Jewish Chaplains Council^® (JWB) early in my tenure at the Union for Reform Judaism (URJ). From time to time, its then-director, Rear Admiral Rabbi Harold Robinson, would call to invite URJ President Rabbi Eric Yoffie to fly with him on a fighter jet that would then land on an aircraft carrier at sea—or at least that’s what I remember hearing about those calls in the executive suite at the URJ! Not surprisingly, Rabbi Yoffie always had a conflict.

More recently I learned that the Jewish Welfare Board, the forerunner of JCC Association of North America, was formed in 1917 as a coalition of organizations to support young Jewish men headed off to fight in World War I. Over more than a century, it has stayed true to its founding, and today its Jewish military chaplains and trained lay leaders bring Jewish life and opportunities to Jewish military personnel and their families wherever in the world they are working to protect Americans and our many freedoms.

Last Thursday, JWB hosted Beverly Wolfer, who spoke to the staff of JCC Association about her brother, Army Major Stuart A. Wolfer, z”l. A Jewish day school graduate, ROTC-commissioned Army officer, and a respected soldier, leader, and friend, he was active in “B’nai Baghdad,” the military’s Jewish community where he served, until he was killed in action there in April 2008. Major Wolfer was 36 years old and left behind his wife and three children, his sister and her family, and his parents.

Throughout his military service, Wolfer’s family regularly sent him care packages, and following his death, they established the Major Stuart Adam Wolfer Institute (MSAWI), a nonprofit organization that works to ensure that his legacy of leadership, commitment to his country, and community service lives on and inspires future generations of children, adults, and leaders. In addition to continuing to send care packages to troops with help from volunteers of all ages, MSAWI raises awareness about the sacrifices troops and their families make to serve our country and recycles the stars on retired American flags (those no longer fit to fly) into tokens of honor for members of the armed forces and veterans.

Just days before Memorial Day, I was honored to learn about the life and legacy of Stuart Wolfer, chat briefly with his sister, and join my colleagues in putting together care packages that will bring some small comforts of home to Jewish-American and American troops stationed on bases, ships, and elsewhere around the world.

Today—and every day—may the soul of Stuart Adam Wolfer and all those killed in service to our country find perfect rest in the shelter of God’s wings and may their memories be for a blessing, now and always.

#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?

#BlogExodus 14: In Praise of Sweet Passover Memories

In 2010, our family's Passover seder turned out to be the seder that wasn't. 

That morning in late March, instead of putting the finishing touches on all her seder preparations, my mom was admitted to the hospital for pain control of what we soon learned was metastatic breast cancer. She was moved to hospice on Shavuot, and died over Memorial Day weekend.  

Needless to say, Passover's been a bittersweet affair for us ever since.

Nonetheless, there were many, many years when it was a wonderful, much anticipated celebration full of family togetherness, delicious food, and afikomen hidings and findings, the retellings of which still can make us laugh!

Here are a few more of those sweet Passover memories:

1. In 1963, my parents took me to Aunt-Claire-and-Uncle-Jash's (it was always just one word) for  my first seder. Walter-the-Whale, ever after known as Walter-a-Whale, came home with us that night, and he's been with me ever since.
2. Many subsequent Passovers were spent there at 17 Brookshire Drive with the Maxwell House haggadah, most recently in 2011, our first without either The Mums or Uncle Jash.
3. Passover always meant a new spring outfit, often the same one as my sister. An apple-green jumper with a matching blouse patterned in pink buds and green leaves is the one I recall most vividly, probably dating back to about 1974.
4. Once we outgrew those matching outfits, there was always a bauble -- usually a necklace or a pair of earrings, but sometimes fun socks or lip gloss -- specially chosen by The Mums, and presented to each of us just before the candles were lit to usher in the holiday. Now, I wear a piece or two of her jewelry on special occasions, an extra reminder -- as though I need one -- of her constant presence.
5. Living on the west coast at the time, I didn't witness this event myself, but heard repeatedly about the time my mom went in the kitchen to tell the woman hired to help serve and clean up that it was time to ladle out the soup. "What soup?" she asked. When my mom said it was in the big pot on the stove, the woman had to explain that, thinking it was dirty dish water, she'd poured it down the drain. Yup, we still talk about the year everyone ate matzah balls as the first course

Passover's still a tough holiday for us -- and it probably always will be. But tonight, when we sit down yet again to retell the story of our Exodus from Egypt, may we all bring with us sweet memories of Passovers gone by, and may we make new ones to recall in the Passovers yet to be.

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, April 22, corresponding to 15 Nisan. If you want to play along, check out this year's  #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts. Once again, this series of posts also is priming my heart, mind, and spirit to participate in  Beyond Walls: Spiritual Writing at Kenyon, a six-day summer writing seminar that is an initiative of the Kenyon Institute at  Kenyon College in Gambier, OH.

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."

Brought to You by the Letter "B"

For a long time, I've known that my Aunt Claire and her first cousin, Phyllis, both have middle names that begin with "B" -- Claire Bertha and Phyllis Beverly -- and that they were named in memory of the same person.  Except that the person's name began with "B," I knew nothing more.

So I asked my Aunt Claire, who told me that it was my grandfather's mother, Brana.

Looking the name up in my copy of the Complete Dictionary of English and Hebrew First Names, I could not find it as Aunt Claire spelled it:  B-r-a-n-a.

However, the last entry on the bottom of page 294 is "Brina." In addition to noting a Hebrew spelling of bet-resh-yud-yud-nun-aleph, the entry says, "From the Yiddish, meaning 'brown.'  Also, from the Slavic, meaning 'protector.'"

The first entry on the top of page 295 is "Brine."  Like the English spelling, which is nearly identical to Brina except for the last letter, so too does the Hebrew spelling have a different letter at the end:  bet-resh-yud-yud-nun-ayin.  The description of the name, however, is identical:  "From the Yiddish, meaning 'brown.'  Akin to Brune."

Here's what Kolatch has to say about Brune:  "From the Yiddish, meaning 'brown,' or from the German name Brunhild, meaning 'fighter in armor.' See also Brina and Brine."  Like the English, the Hebrew spelling is slightly different than the two previous names:  bet-resh-vav-nun-ayin.

Satisfied that one of these variants was my great-grandmother's name, I asked Aunt Claire what she knew about her.  She said she didn't know much except that she'd died young, and that nobody talked much about her.  Her husband, Jacob, for whom I am named, remarried and lived into his 90s.

I have to admit that Aunt Claire's descriptions of her paternal grandparents make me wonder if it was Brina who carried the BRCA gene mutation that appears to have been passed along to my grandfather (he died from prostate cancer), and definitely came down to my mom, to my aunt, and to me.

Although we'll never know the answer, of course, it seems plausible to me.

Two Rabbis, a Book, and Lots of Names

During yesterday's "hallway kiddish" following Shabbat services, Marlene, a longtime member and regular at the minyan, handed me this article that she'd clipped from The Jewish Week after reading my recent Ten Minutes of Torah essay.  I had not seen Rabbi Wolpe's short piece, and appreciated that she had saved it for me.

Later, toward the end of Torah study, Rabbi Stein told the group that he's in the process of giving away the books in his library--he'll be retiring at the end of June--and that we were welcome to stop in to see what might be of interest.  Needless to say, many of us followed him down to his office, which is overflowing with shelves of neatly arranged and well organized volumes.

After a few minutes of browsing, I asked the rabbi about a book I've seen referenced many times that always sounds interesting, although I didn't know its exact title.

"It's about names," I said, which was enough of a clue for him to pull this well-worn red volume from the shelf:  Complete Dictionary of English and Hebrew First Names by Alfred J. Kolatch.

"I've been using it for 40 years," he told me.

Indeed, the binding is broken in a few spots, and a whole section of pages containing feminine names from Billie, a feminine pet form of William, to Elya, from the Syriac and Hebrew, meaning "dirge, elegy" is full detached from the rest of the book.

Nonetheless, after just a few minutes of flipping through the book's 400-plus pages (and a second, more scholarly work, also about names), I told him I'd take the former and thanked him for this unexpected gift.  I'm grateful not only to add this particular volume to my own collection, but glad to have it as a keepsake from a rabbi who has been exceedingly kind and caring to me, and from whom I have learned much during the last four years.

Only after I left the synagogue did I read Rabbi Wolpe's column as I waited for the bus.  Entitled "A Name, A Soul," it begins with this sentence:

The Book of Exodus, in Hebrew, is called "Sh'mot," or names.

Rabbi Wolpe goes on to talk about the value and importance of names, before closing with this paragraph:

The crown of a good name, teaches Pirke Avot, is the greatest of all crowns.  In a graveyard, whatever other inscription a stone bears, it invariably records the deceased's name.  Tyranny seeks to erase names.  Memory and love restore and preserve them.

I am honored to be the keeper of Rabbi Stein's copy of "Kolatch," into whose worn red cover I have slipped the clipping of Rabbi Wolpe's short essay.  I believe it's the perfect spot in which to keep it.

Yom HaShoah: Past and Present

In honor of Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, which is tomorrow, I wrote this short piece, which was Thursday's Ten Minutes of Torah.

Two years ago, I wrote this post on Yom HaShoah, and in 2009, this was my Yom HaShoah reflection.

As a witness to history, it is my responsibility to remember...on Yom HaShoah and always.

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.

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.

#BlogExodus: Redeeming

Dear The Mums,

In just a few days, it'll be the season of our redemption and so it's time for my springtime note to bring you up to speed.  I know you probably already know a lot of what I'm about to tell you, but just in case you don't, I'll do my best to fill you in.  As an aside, although the calendar says it's spring, the meteorologists are saying otherwise.  In fact, it's supposed to snow on Monday, making a further mess of what will already be messy "Yid-lock" as people try to make it to their seders on time.  Do you think you can do something about that?!

But I digress....here's the update:

At the end of February, Aunt Claire moved out to an Erickson community in Novi, MI, so she can be close to Marc, Susan and the kids, who moved to Perrysburg, OH, during the fall so Marc could take a new job. Daddy and I are planning to go out there in November for Carolyn's bat mitzvah, but that still makes this the first Passover in a long, long time that doesn't include Aunt Claire at our seder table.

And, in fact, we're not actually having a seder.  You know that Passover has never been Daddy's or Amy's thing and with Ian in Florida at a spring break baseball camp with John, our "seder" on Monday night will look more like a family dinner at Amy's house.  She invited her friend Christine, and Aunt Bea and Barbara also might come--if Blossom and Ed don't go to Aunt Bea's.  Even though it's not going to be a full-blown seder, Amy asked me to bring charoset, so I'll spend part of tomorrow chopping apples and nuts, and putting it all together. I hope she'll do yellow tulips on the table, but I'll probably bring a bunch with me, just to be sure.

Tuesday night, however, I'll be at a full-blown seder, as I always am on the second night of Passover.  This year especially, I am grateful for the opportunity to perform all the rituals--dinner in the RA Haggadah doesn't happen until somewhere around page 88, I think--and for the friends and laughter that will abound that night.  

I'm not quite sure how things work where you are, but I do hope that you've run into Mrs. Steinberg and that the two of you have been busy catching up with each other and shmying around in Pier 1, HomeGoods and at flea markets.  Please keep your eye out, too, for a young woman whom I think you'll really like.  Although Elissa Froman and I never met in person, we had a few email exchanges and a number of mutual friends, which actually wasn't hard since it seems that so many people were friends with Elissa.  She was a RAC LA before going to work for the National Council of Jewish Women, where she was a deeply dedicated advocate for social and economic justice, managing a portfolio that included civil rights, religion/state separation, international issues and judicial nominations. She had plans to go to rabbinical school and had been accepted at HUC, but after years of fighting Hodgkin's lymphoma, she died yesterday at 29.  Today Facebook is overflowing with countless pictures of Elissa with her friends, as well as loving sentiments written by those same broken-hearted people.  I've included a picture of her here so you'll know her if you see her. My hunch is that you and she will hit it off. 

There's lots more to tell, but it's late and so the rest will have to wait for another letter.  In the meantime though, although Passover will never be an easy holiday for any of us, I hope you know that these notes to you help, in some small way, to redeem my heart from the grip of sadness that comes from missing you.

Chag Pesach sameach, The Mums...xoxo,

~ Boo!

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.

#BlogExodus: Cleaning

Dear #BlogExodus,

Thanks to you, my apartment is cleaner than it's been in a long time and--with the exception of finishing up the chametz and stocking the cabinet with matzah--nearly ready for Pesach 5773.

Since we spent the night of the 14th of Nissan 5770--and many additional ones--at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital and then Haven Hospice, this has not been an easy holiday for any of us, but I'm grateful to you for helping me bring the spirit of Pesach back into my life--and into my home.

Wishing you a ziessen Pesach, #BlogExodus.

xoxo,
~ JanetheWriter

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.

#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.

A Mother-Daughter Jaunt to Miami

One in an occasional series of letters to my mother, z.l., that appears on this blog.

Dear The Mums,

Remember when you went to the URJ Biennial in Orlando in 1999 and how, when you told one of your friends it was your first trip to Florida, she asked, “Are you sure you’re really Jewish?!”

I was reminded of that exchange recently because Alan Mason, one of my friends, is, for the fifth time in as many years, directing what has become an incredibly popular and nationally known Jewish music concert in Miami.  Alan’s the program director of the Winter Jewish Music Concert, an annual event that began four years ago as a tribute to him on his 18^th anniversary as the director of music at Temple Israel of Greater Miami.

Since then, it has grown exponentially in size and popularity.  This year’s Winter Jewish Music Concert will be held on Saturday, January 19 at 8 p.m. in the Bertha Abess Sanctuary at Temple Israel.  That night, more than 25 singers (cantors, cantorial soloists and musicians) will, accompanied by Alan on the piano, come together from throughout South Florida and beyond to perform a lively mix of tap-your-foot, sing-along Jewish music, including liturgical, pop, jazz, folk, Israeli, Yiddish, Ladino, cantorial, beat box, magic and illusion, as well as other styles.  A capacity crowd of more than 700 will, as in the past, pack the sanctuary, while countless others will watch the first-ever live broadcast of the concert on Jewish Life TV. 

Although I’ve never made it to Miami for the concert (or for any other reason, in fact), I’ve seen video clips from previous concerts and I can tell you that you and I would love a pair of seats in the sanctuary.   

In an ideal world, we’d take a mid-winter, leave-it-all-behind mother-daughter jaunt to Miami to fill those seats.  Of course, this isn’t an ideal world and the best I can do this year is tune in to Jewish Life TV next Saturday night to watch and listen virtually.  I’m not sure what kind of electronics set-up you’ve got in your yeshivah shel mal'ah (or, come to think of it, if, given where you are, you even need video equipment to see and hear the concert!), but I hope you, too, will tune in—in whatever way works best—to hear the music and feel the enthusiasm.  You will love it!  If you need more information, there’s lots of it here on the concert’s website.

As always, I miss you lots and wish you were here.  Enjoy the music, The Mums.

Talk soon…xoxo,

~ Boo!

Letter to The Mums: Always on our Minds

Dear The Mums,

The most recent edition of RJ magazine includes this little blurb that I wrote last year just before the High Holy Days.  I wouldn’t normally point something like this out to you, but this past Saturday was Brian’s bar mitzvah and I chose my jewelry for the occasion very carefully.  Included in my ensemble were a necklace and two bracelets that belonged to you.  When we got to temple, Aunt Claire was wearing earrings--which you know she doesn’t do very often.  They were very pretty and I complimented her on them.  She told me that you had given them to her.  It seems that you were on everyone’s mind that morning.

The bar mitzvah was lovely and Brian did a great job.  The service was a bit long, though, given that it was a double and there were the extra Hallel readings for Sukkot (as well as a second hakafah before the scroll was returned to the ark.  I’ve never seen that done…have you?)  You’ll be interested to know, too, that in Conservative congregations, God’s still reviving the dead, unlike “by us” where the Eternal is giving life to all. :-)  Meitim vs. hakol aside, the Conservative siddur lists the matriarchs in the order that you prefer them:  Sarah, Rebecca, Leah and Rachel, and Ted told me that every time that passage was read, he thought of you.  You really were ahead of your time.  Amy and I opened the ark before the Torah service, Daddy carried one of the scrolls, and Aunt Claire had an aliyah. She did a wonderful job; you would have been proud.

At the reception, I chatted with Sherry and Marvin Freedman and all of Aunt Claire's neighbors and friends -- the Marks', the Ronans, and the Kossins.  We talked about you, and Mrs. Ronan told a story about Uncle Irv.  Before long, we were all laughing about his cigarettes and how he'd stick them in his pocket whenever anyone came out into the garden to check on him. Those memories never seem to fade...they've just gotten sweeter with time.

Here are some pictures so you can see how we’re all looking these days.  We missed you, but in so many ways you were right there with us…as you are always.  

Ian:  Getting so tall, but still sweet as ever

Ian and Amy

Pretty Jill (she's 15!)

Daddy with Amy and me

 Chag sameach, The Mums and xoxo,

~ Boo!

P.S.  Melinda Panken used your ethical will as part of her remarks during Yizkor on Yom Kippur and Peter Weidhorn told me that there wasn’t a dry eye in the sanctuary.  I think that your values are living on in ways that you probably couldn’t have imagined when you first penned those words.  xoxo.

#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.

Chaim Glasberg, z'l

It is late, I am tired, and the six yellow yahrzeit candles lit this morning in the office have long since burned out.  Indeed, this year's Yom HaShoah commemorations are over.

And yet, for those of us who have taken on the responsibility as witnesses to history, the remembrances continue from one 27 Nisan to the next.  Although I never knew him, I spent much of today imagining and remembering Chaim Glasberg.  In my mind, today is his yahrzeit, and so, as I do each year on this day, I offer this traditional prayer in his memory:

O God full of compassion, Eternal Spirit of the universe, grant perfect rest under the wings of Your Presence to our loved one, Chaim Glasberg, who has entered eternity.  Adonai, let him find refuge forever in the shadow of Your wings, and let his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.  The Eternal God is his inheritance.  May he rest in peace, and let us say:  Amen.