The Fine Line Between Memory and Lore

This yahrzeit candle is for Tante Laura, who died when I was only seven (yes, 47 years ago). Nonetheless, I have many sweet memories -- although some are more lore than memory.

1. Tante Laura and my grandmother and their brother, Uncle Max, came to this country from Vienna in the early 1920s, and worked in the garment industry, saving to bring their parents here as well.
2. When my mom was a little girl in the Bronx, Tante Laura and Uncle Max – neither of whom ever married – rented an apartment from the Provenzanos that was right next door to Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home on Second Avenue between Second and Third streets. Directly across the street was the Church of the Nativity, and on Saturdays in the spring, my mother would watch from Tante Laura’s window as the wedding parties assembled on the steps of the church for photographs. She always described the bride and groom in the middle, flanked by taffeta-clad bridesmaids – two in blue, two in yellow, two in pink, two in green, and so on. Oh, how those young women must have captured her imagination. To this day, whenever I ride the bus down Second Avenue, I take a long glance at those windows, wondering at that early 1940s scene.
3. When my cousin, Ted, was in college, he told his mom about a kid in his fraternity – Joe Cernigliaro – who had some connection to the Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home. Don’t ask me why or how the two guys figured this out, but on a whim, my Aunt Claire told Ted to ask Joe if his mother’s name is Adrienne. Sure enough, that’s his mom. I’m not sure if she knew my mom and Aunt Claire when Tante Laura and Uncle Max were her family’s tenants, but it’s a small world nonetheless.
4. To say that Tante Laura was generous would be an understatement. When she made sandwiches, my mom would ask her to make hers with just one slice of bread. She did, of course, but she used the biggest, thickest one from right in the middle of the rye bread! Years later, when my parents were married and living with two young kids a few hours from New York, my mom always found a $10 bill tucked in the pocket of her coat or purse upon returning from a visit.
5. When I was born (or maybe it was Amy?), Tante Laura made a dress from Swiss dot fabric (the dots were red) that still hangs in the closet in what had been my sister’s room at 12 Webster Road.
6. In my mind’s eye, Tante Laura was always zaftig (and I am convinced I got those genes). She wore combs in her hair and black orthopedic shoes on her feet. To me, she resembled Golda Meir, which accounts, I think, for my fondness for the zaftig Israeli politician with the black orthopedic shoes.
7. This memory isn’t necessarily sweet and it’s not even a memory because I didn’t learn about it, let alone understand what it meant, until long after it happened. When Tante Laura died in 1970, the gravediggers were on strike in New York and my parents traveled hastily from Maryland to New York for her funeral, returning there for her burial when the strike ended three months later. To this day, I think about this sad circumstance – and Tante Laura – whenever the gravediggers lower a casket into the ground before the rest of us cover it with shovels full of dirt. 

Rest in peace, Tante Laura, now and always.

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."

The Divine Wink

Last Thursday, I received an email from a colleague/friend, the subject line of which said, "I'm sweet talking you..."

The message itself said this:

I was just asked to speak at Rabbi Ploni's good-bye Shabbat tomorrow night.  I’d love to have a letter from the president with me.  Is this at all possible? If I knew the date earlier, I would have asked. Thanks for considering it, Your friend

After a bit of back and forth about some details for the content of the letter, I was able to get it written and arrange to have the final version sent to her the next day, when I'd be out of the office.  She was grateful and our conversation continued:

My friend:  Jane, thank you so much! Enjoy your day off tomorrow.

Me:  Thanks.  It’s my mom’s yahrzeit…and I’ve got lots of odds and ends to do around the house.  Not a great day, but a vacation day, nonetheless.

My friend:  I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow.  Yahrzeits are a tough, sometimes lonely affair.

Me:  Thanks…it’s been a tough few weeks, and I will be glad when the actual day is past…until next year.

And then on Monday, how touched I was to receive this message from my friend:

How was the weekend (especially Friday)?

Me:  It was surprisingly lovely.  I had an unexpected visit from a friend who was in town from Florida for 36 hours and because I was home with not much on the agenda, she and the friend she was traveling with were able to come and hang out for a few hours.  Ironically, the last time I saw her was during shiva for my mom when she also was in town for a wedding.  Bashert!  Thanks for checking in…hope you had a good weekend!

My friend:  Jane, I am happy to hear this!  What a nice divine wink.

I love the idea that God can wink at us...and that God winked at me last week. Thanks, God.

I'll be looking for Your next one, and I hope I catch it when it happens.

Thanks to FORCE, None of Us Walks Alone

Tonight on the way home from work, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a yahrzeit candle.  Although I’m generally not superstitious, I don’t like to keep them in the house and so I buy them one-at-a-time, only as needed.  I’ll light this one tomorrow night, marking the beginning of my mother’s third yahrzeit.

As regular readers of this blog know, my mourning has been complicated by the fact that just a few months after my mom’s death from exceedingly virulent triple negative metastatic breast cancer, we learned that I carry a BRCA gene mutation (inherited from her, we surmised) that significantly increased my lifetime risk of both breast and ovarian cancer.  This same mutation (unbeknownst to us at the time) was a substantial factor in the rapid course of my mother’s disease.

Looking back, sometimes the time feels like three seconds and other times like three millennia.  In addition to living without her for the last three years, I’ve spent nearly as much time living with and learning about the BRCA mutation I carry.  Thankfully, I haven’t had to walk this path alone. 

In addition to the outpouring of love and support I’ve received from all of you—my family, friends, and colleagues, both in real life and virtually—I am especially and deeply grateful to my sisters in the FORCE community. As the organization's full name, Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered, suggests, these women—each of whom comes from a family that struggles with hereditary cancer syndrome that all too often leaves gaping holes where mothers, grandmothers, aunts, cousins, and sisters used to be—willingly and lovingly stepped up, taught me what they knew, answered my questions, shared their experiences, and saw me through a complete hysterectomy in 2010, and, in 2011, a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy with autologous reconstruction that was complex, multi-phased, and not without complications—some of which continue to this day. 

Initially, as I grappled with an overload of medical information, an abundance of emotional stumbling blocks, and ongoing mourning, I was surrounded by generous and unyielding support from women who had been empowered to face their own BRCA challenges head-on and, despite lingering physical and emotional scars, were moving forward in their lives, even as they were passing along to me what others previously had given to them.

Now it’s my turn.  Last December, I was invited to join the ranks of FORCE’s volunteer Outreach Coordinators, a role that I, like my predecessors, have taken on willingly and lovingly in the hopes that I, too, can step up to help other BRCA-positive women as they come to terms with their genetic mutations and decide upon which positive, life-affirming steps are right for them.

Because FORCE is a grassroots, not-for-profit organization on a shoestring budget, it, of course, faces a constant need for funding.  As I mark my mother’s yahrzeit tomorrow night, I am hopeful that you might consider a contribution to this incredible group that’s been there for me and so that I can be there for others.  Your support will help ensure that none of us in the hereditary breast and ovarian cancer community ever will have to walk this bumpy road alone. 

Thank you for the innumerable ways you have supported me on this unanticipated journey.  I am grateful to each of you.  xoxo.

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!

For You, The Mums: Kaddish from Jerusalem

Photo:  yahrzeit.org

Just a little while ago I returned from synagogue, where my mother’s name was read from the bimah as I stood, preparing to recite kaddish, marking the second anniversary of her death.  My father will do the same in his synagogue next week, which is when her yahrzeit will be observed there.

In the meantime, because of an IM conversation I had yesterday with a friend who’s currently visiting in Jerusalem, he also said kaddish for her tonight.

The conversation went something like this:

Me:        Boker tov.

Friend:    Good evening from Jerusalem.

Me:         Ahhhh...lucky you!  Enjoy, be safe, and eat a falafel for me!   When are you back?

Friend:    Next Thursday.

Me:        Enjoy.  Have fun!

Friend:    Want me to bring you anything?

Me:         Just eat a falafel for me...

Friend:    Consider it done.

Me:         One more thing:  If you're at services, it's my mother's yahrzeit.  She'd love to know someone  said kaddish for her in Israel....

Friend:      Consider that done as well. Tomorrow night with the IMPJ.

Me:          Perfect!  Thank you!

Friend:    She'd like that.

Me:        I know!

So, The Mums, I hope you appreciate that tonight—from the east and from the west--we were thinking of you, remembering you, and missing you.  xoxo.

The Journey Continues...

Dear The Mums,

I know that sending yahrzeit notices is a routine administrative function in synagogues, especially when they’re as big as Temple Shaaray Tefila, but do they really think that I need a reminder about yours?  Really?!  Here’s the thing you’ll love, though:  The letter I received yesterday from Shaaray Tefila says that your name will be read at services on Friday, June 1, and the letter I received today from Temple Emanu-El says that your name will be read at services on Friday, June 8.  I guess it’s the same principle as celebrating two days of a holiday to make sure that you get the date right.  No worries on that front: I’ll be at Shaaray Tefila on June 1, and Daddy will be at Temple Emanu-El on June 8 so we’ve got you covered.  And you know Amy…she does her own thing when it comes to anything that looks or feels even remotely “religious.”

There are a few other things you might want to know – if you don’t already.  The "bridge ladies" are trying to find a date to get together again during mid-September, and when I wrote back to tell them which dates could potentially work for me, one of the dates that doesn’t work conflicts with a meeting of the TST Ritual Committee on which I now serve.  Like mother, like daughter...

Also, I assume that you know that Debbie Bravo’s leaving at the end of June to become the senior rabbi at Sue Feldman’s congregation.  I’m sad…but I’m sure this is a good opportunity for her, and hopeful that she and I will stay in touch.  Two years ago at this time, we spoke every day.  When I was in the city, she’d call after every visit with you to give me a report and check in on the rest of us.  I’m not sure how we made it through those long days, but I’m sure that we couldn’t have done it without her and everyone else who called, visited, cooked, texted, emailed, posted messages on Caring Bridge, and otherwise helped us absorb the shocks of that bumpy road.  I was just thinking the other day about the “concert” in your hospice room on one of the first days after you got there.  It might have been the day after Shavuot, but I don’t remember exactly.  What I do remember is the singing…  Jacquie on the guitar, Sally, Flo, Randi, Debbie and whoever else happened to be there at the moment.  We sang all your favorites:  Jerusalem of Gold, The Impossible Dream, America the Beautiful, We Gather Together and lots of others.  I hope you heard us and could enjoy the music.

Daddy’s going to the June 16 gala honoring both Debbie and David so you will be well represented.  I considered going, too, but I’m having “nip and tuck” surgery on June 19 so just want to lay low during the few days beforehand.  It’s a same-day procedure—under general anesthesia—to clean up the incisions and put the finishing touches on last year’s 12-hour surgery.  I expect that everything will go as planned and I’ll go back to work the following week.

In other news, Amy’s business has taken off like wildfire and she’s collecting clients faster than Albert C. Barnes collected art.  Ian is a Little League superstar with multiple games each weekend.  He plays catcher and when he’s at bat often hits well enough to bring a few players home.  He’s going to baseball camp this summer and, if Amy let him, would toss a ball around all day long. 

As always, there’s lots more to tell, but I need to go fix some dinner.  I’m sure you already know most of what I’ve reported here, but in case you didn’t, I just wanted to keep you up-to-date.  And, of course, you know I don’t need any reminders about your yahrzeit.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you, miss you, and wish you were here.

xoxo,
~ Boo!

P.S.  A “baby rabbi” will start at temple on July 1.  He was ordained a few weeks ago in New York and in my mind, he’s sort of like the new king in Egypt, with you playing the part of Joseph:  “A new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph.”  But, as it says on the tee-shirts from the temple’s 40th anniversary:  “The journey continues…”

Bittersweet Birthday

Today’s my birthday.  When I was a kid that meant my mother made my bed, I didn’t have to unload the dishwasher, and dinner was a meal of my choice (which for many years of my childhood was roast beef and oven brown potatoes) served on the big red “You are special today” plate.

Today, my birthday was marked by endless Facebook and email messages (thanks, everyone!), lots of phone calls, and dinner with a few friends at my sister’s apartment.  Although my meal (delicious and lovingly prepared, as always) still was served on the big red plate, so much else has changed…

I can’t help but recall last year’s celebration, one of the last times we Hermans were all together in the configuration in which we’d always known our family.  Thank goodness for the gift of these memories…especially as I came to realize that this day--that more than any other bonds mother and child--will never be the same for me.

My birthday also means remembering others who died at this season in years past. 

On January 28, 1986, it was the members of the Challenger crew:

Greg Jarvis    
Christa McAuliffe    
Ron McNair
El Onizuka    
Judy Resnik
Dick Scobee
Mike Smith

On the morning of January 29, 2004, it was 11 victims of a suicide bomber who blew up the #19 rush hour bus in Jerusalem’s Rehavia district.  (I happen to have been a few blocks away at the time and never, ever will I forget walking past the scene later that night, the silent, swirling blue light of a lone police car the sole reminder of the morning's events.)

Avraham (Albert) Balhasan, 28, of Jerusalem
Rose Boneh, 39, of Jerusalem
Hava Hannah (Anya) Bonder, 38, of Jerusalem
Anat Darom, 23, of Netanya
Viorel Octavian Florescu, 42, of Jerusalem
Natalia Gamril, 53, of Jerusalem
Yechezkel Isser Goldberg, 41, of Betar Illit
Baruch (Roman) Hondiashvili, 38, of Jerusalem
Dana Itach, 24, of Jerusalem
Mehbere Kifile, 35, of Ethiopia
Eli Zfira, 48, of Jerusalem

This year, my birthday also means trying to wrap my head around yet another death, this one from just yesterday and, saddest of all, from within our own circle of longtime family friends. Even as I type these words, it remains surreal to me:  Mr. G. (I still cannot call any adult I met before 1985 anything but Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So) died in a terrible automobile accident yesterday morning.  For nearly 40 years, right from the start in 1972, he and Mrs. G. have been inextricably linked to our family’s involvement at Temple Emanu-El.  From Hebrew school carpools, b’nei mitzvah, and confirmations, to social gatherings, temple seders, oneg Shabbats, and, more recently, shiva minyamin, they have just always been there.  And now, one of them—a loving husband, father, grandfather and all-around good guy—is suddenly, tragically, and absolutely gone.

Baruch dayan HaEmet.  Blessed is the Eternal Judge.  May the Eternal Judge grant comfort and peace to all of us who mourn.  Amen.

Tante Mina Redux

Earlier today, I received the following email from my Aunt Claire:

Dear Jane,

Brian and Carolyn are here for a few days. I was showing Carolyn some old family pictures and came across this one of Tante Mina, which I scanned and am sending to you as an attachment. In the picture, which is dated 1959, Tante Mina (at age 80) received some kind of honor at the Home of the Daughters of Jacob. She is standing with Abe Ribicoff (at the mike), who was the governor of Connecticut at that time, and later became Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, in President Kennedy's Cabinet.

Since we just spoke about her a few days ago, I thought that you might like this picture.

I am not sure of my scanning ability, so let me know whether you receive the attachment intact.

Shabbat shalom and love,
Aunt Claire

In fact, the first version of the photo she sent did not come through, but as you can see, the second one most certainly did.

Not only am I pleased to see this photo of Tante Mina, but I am most impressed with the technology skills and persistence of my aunt!

My Summer of Remembering

With my mother’s death earlier this summer, I’ve become my family’s “Keeper of the Yahrzeit List.”  So, while some of my friends may be having a summer to remember, I seem to be having a summer of remembering.

First it was Grandma, my mother’s mother, whose yahrzeit falls on July 25th.  She’s in my heart always, and in my writing frequently.  You can read some of my reminiscences and reflections about her here and here and here.

Next was Uncle Irv’s yahrzeit on August 7th.  He too has been the subject of my musings.

Tonight is Tante Mina’s yahrzeit.  My sister Amy is named for her—Leah Meryl—but I didn’t know anything more, so I asked Aunt Claire, my mother’s sister.  Here’s what she had to say:

Tante Mina was a cousin. I don't know how she was related. She was a very short lady and we always used to measure our height against hers. At a very young age we found ourselves taller than her. To know her was to love her because she was so sweet and kind. She was widowed at an early age.  I never knew her husband.  She was rather poor, and as she got older she arranged to go to a Jewish home for the aged. She was very happy there; she loved the arts and crafts classes and also volunteered to feed those people in the home who were unable to feed themselves. She was a "gutte neshumah," a good soul.  We try to remember her because there is no one else to do so.

And so it is that earlier tonight I lit a yahrzeit candle (that’s it up there on the left) for Tante Mina.  As I think about her on her yahrzeit, may her memory--like those of so many others--be a blessing.