Spring Awakening

I am a notorious pack rat, saving things because I'm afraid that if I throw them out, at some point in the future I'll be sorry I did.

If all these "things" would be gathered in one place, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, but because they're all over the house -- in an armoir, on bookshelves, in closets, in the basement, etc -- and I'm not even sure where "all over" means, it makes it difficult to even track things down.

So, for that reason, I'm trying to be a bit aggressive today, with a recycling box and a garbage bag in hand, and getting rid of stuff that I probably will not look at again.

For example, I'm blessed with three children, and I'm blessed with being able to send them to Jewish day school. The Hebrew books they use differ from what I used in my day school -- we actually had hardcover and softcover textbooks; these kids have text/workbooks. So whereas we used to keep our textbooks from my school, there is really no reason to have to save these workbooks that my kids have been using. They've written all the answers in, so they don't help anyone anymore.

Sad, just how many years it took me to figure that one out. My oldest will be graduating junior high next month, G-d willing, and I have all his workbooks going back to grade 1. Now multiply that times three kids!

I volunteered for many years with Ontario Jewish Archives, where we'd archive documents in acid-free files and classify them, etc. If there were multiples of any one form in a file, we were told to keep at least two of each, and trash the rest. Now I have to apply that to my own personal archives I've been keeping at home. For example, if I've got published poetry in newspapers, I don't need two copies of the full newspaper, and three copies of the page the poem is on. One full copy and one page copy should suffice.

Getting my house in order is certainly an extension of getting my life in order. Isn't it great to be able to hit two birds with one stone? Hmmm, but does that mean I then have to get rid of my stone collection too...?

A First Yizkor Service

On the last day of Pesach, I said the Yizkor prayer for the first time for my father.

Our rabbi says that in the first year of mourning, it is the mourner's choice whether or not they want to stay inside the sanctuary for the service. I've looked on different websites, and some say to stay in, but for the first year not recite it for the particular person whom you are mourning, and another website says that if one feels they will have their grief overpower them and will wail loudly and uncontrollably, they can leave the sanctuary.

I did neither. I stayed inside. I said Yizkor. I did not cry.

I could honor my father in this special way. I could remember the goodness that he embodied and not feel overwhelmed by grief.

I could also honor my grandparents and other family members who'd passed away and think of them as I prayed.

As I've said a number of times since my father passed away, I've not really been crying at all, but I feel his absence in my life/my family's life/my mother's life/my brothers' lives. I think about him, I talk about him, I refer to him...to keep it all fresh for myself and others.

It's surprising to me how I have been sometimes feeling somewhat resentful of others and their over concern for me and the sympathetic faces they put on and the pacifying tones their voices take.

After the Yizkor service, one of the women I know leaned over, put on her now-familiar-to-me sympathetic face and whispered, "Hmm, your first Yizkor service. Hard, huh?" I told her it hadn't been too bad, but she sort of persisted in her comments and pacifying tone. I just retorted (to my surprise!) but in a nice but firm way, "I think the fact that I'm a mourner is harder on you than it is on me. I'm doing okay. REALLY." She then nodded and agreed. "Yes, you are. Yup, I can see that."

Perhaps I'm not as resentful at them as I am at myself simply because I am not behaving in the "expected" way of a child who has recently lost an exceptionally adored parent. I'm not taking it as hard as people believe I must be. I'm not wallowing in grief, unable to eat or talk or handle day-to-day activities. I certainly don't walk around with a long face or a continuous pensive look.

There are no giveaways hinting at the fact that I'm a mourner, except when I say Kaddish over on the women's side of the mechitzah.

I prepared for two seders in our home, aware of the absence of my father at second seder, but thankful my mother was there. I talked about things Zaidy said and did at our seders throughout the years, and told my children at the onset of the seders that Pesach seders are exactly that: a combination of traditions/customs, memory and storytelling, played out year after year. I picked up minhagim/customs from my parents, my husband picked up minhagim from his parents, we started some minhagim of our own as a married couple, and we blended them all. I told the kids that they'll walk away from our home with some of these blended minhagim too, as well as start some new ones of their own. And so the cycle continues...

And such is life.

And death.

At Least Once a Year...

...it's nice to get published!



This week, the Canadian Jewish News came out with their Passover edition, and with this edition came their supplement that offers Passover greetings as well as literary pieces that deal with Jewish themes.



For the past number of years, I've submitted poetry to be considered for the literary supplement, and can thankfully say that something of mine is chosen to be used each year that I submit.



The newspaper has a wide readership: in Canada, the U.S., and points beyond, so it's always exciting for me as well as humbling to find my name and words in print.




This year I submitted four pieces -- two, fun limerick-type poems that deal with Passover, and two serious poems. I was hoping that if they chose any of my poems, it would be one of the serious ones. And yes, lucky for me, they published both!



If you can use the link that I provided above, you can search the section for my two poems on pages B14, and B36. If you have trouble with the link, I will recreate the poems here.



AT SIXTY



At sixty, one is not quite old, neither young...but somewhere in the middle.

With life lines to show,

fine wrinkles here and there,

graying hair or balding patches,

hinting age spots

and a book of photographs depicting a life.



At sixty, Israel is not quite old, neither young...but somewhere in the middle.



But in truth she is ancient -- Israel is a "she," you know -- and was reborn in May 1948.



Not everyone has the chance to be reborn. But Israel...she fought to be reborn.

She fought hard. Her supporters fought harder.



From desert sands and barren fields, she brought forth life.



From stark grayness, she brought forth greens and blues.



From a handful of devotees, she yielded multitudes of lovers.

Lovers of her country.

Lovers of her language.

Lovers of her culture.

Lovers of the blue and white of her draping flag.



Lovers of "Hatikvah."

Hope. Forever sustaining Israel.

Forever sustaining...



^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^




THE WALLS OF THE GHETTO


The walls of the ghetto encircled you.
The walls of the ghetto enclosed you.
The walls of the ghetto framed you.
Framed your life and the lives of your loved ones.
You, with your tattered yellow star marking you
Jew. Schweinhund. Part of a damned nation.
It is fear that fed you when the cupboards were bare.
It is bravery that sustained you when that fear was spent.

You fought to the bitter end --
The rat-tat-tat of machine gun artillery
echoing off the barren walls of that wasteland.
The raining of bombs all around you.
The smell of death hovering... Always hovering.

With hands up in the air, with this gesture of surrender,
of final supplication
You the boy, already a man, left your legacy.

And we remember. We always remember...

Afterthoughts...

Today will mark the shloshim (30 days since death) for my father.


Where did the month go? It goes so quickly, yet crawls so slowly...as we try to pick up the pieces.


Of course, the first seven days went by in the act of sitting shiva. And then there was the getting-back-to-daily-life routine, which has included the activity of writing thank-you notes for shiva meals, sympathy cards and donations made in my father's memory.


And there has been the activity of metaphorically patting people on the hand in a "There, there, it's okay" fashion when several have called or approached me to say, "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral....I 'm sorry, I just heard about your loss....I'm sorry, I couldn't make it to the shiva. I really wanted to, but it just didn't work out."


I've repeated myself over and over to these people, "It's okay. No, it's REALLY okay." People feel the need to explain themselves (I know, I suffer from that too.), but there's truly no need to do so. They have just taken a moment to express their condolences to me verbally, even after the fact, and that is as nice a gesture.


As for sitting shiva: it's an eye opener, and for me proved to be almost a beautiful type of experience. No, I didn't hear countless nostalgic stories about my dad, which is often the case, but I saw people whom I haven't seen in YEARS.

And the phone calls that were received...? From all over the world: Israel, California, Mexico, Israel, Florida, Switzerland, New York, Vancouver. Multiple calls from many of these places -- every family member of certain families calling independent of one another, once they heard about my father's death. It was truly overwhelming (yes, I know I use that words many times in this post, but there's no other word to describe the feelings) and heartwarming.

My father has lived in Canada for 60 years, my mother for 53 years. They had friends and family visit, friends from the early years with whom their lives had drifted apart, family we rarely see. We are three kids, with two of us married locally, so we had friends, family and co-workers come out from our shuls, from our former day schools, from our universities, from our kids' schools, from our social networks, from our present jobs, from our past jobs. And people came there who had connections to our spouses too. When handfuls of people traipsed into the house from these offices together at one time, I asked if they'd closed the offices for the day? My parents' pharmacist for the past three years, who had lots of business given his way (unfortunately) at the expense of my father's medical issues, did close his shop one afternoon and came to pay a shiva call. He is not a Jewish man, but respected my father and held him in high esteem to visit. Non-Jewish neighbors came by when they saw a lull in traffic to the house, and sat there with us, wearing their Sunday best and crying tears of sadness for their good neighbor and friend, Jack.


My father treated all people equally; he showed respect to all people. They in turn respected him.


A few people I'd gone to school with, and had not even been friends with-- just classmates -- came by for morning or evening davening, or came in the middle of the day, and sat with me not just for a few minutes, but for 30 minutes or longer, where we caught up on our lives and the twisting turns they'd taken over the years. These people's appearances and words touched me in such a beautiful way.


One of the girls said, "Out of sadness can often come good things." And she was so right.


I saw a handful of people walk in at different times and there would be "six degrees of separation" going on, mini-reunions being had between people visiting for me and visiting for one of my brothers. There was so much of this going on all week, and I was so pleased.


We had such a cross section of people come through, from non-Jews, to assimilated Jews, to very Yeshivish, black hatters. One evening, a very frum couple came into the crowded room, and they didn't look familiar to me. I assumed these people were for my Toronto brother, perhaps from his shul, so I looked over to my Boston-based brother and said, "I wonder if they're here for Jerry....? Or maybe they're at the wrong shiva house! " I suggested. Turns out they were at the right house, and my mother had a Swiss connection with them, but it just goes to show that I may not have known everyone walking through that door, but they knew us, and they knew my father and wanted to honor him.


On the Wednesday and Thursday nights, the living room, hallways and family room were PACKED for evening davening, so much so that it was rather overwhelming to me and I suggested that it was time to do another house expansion!


My father would have been overwhelmed and certainly humbled. Tefilla was so important to him, and for all these men to gather together, davening in his home in the morning and in the evening would have pleased him so.


He was a quiet, refined gentleman, regarded this way by many. He didn't want to draw attention to himself in any way, but no doubt because he was so special in being his charming self, he DID draw attention to himself and in a very positive fashion.


Life works rather mysteriously too. And the six degrees of separation I mentioned above also held true on the day of my father's funeral.


I knew on the previous Thursday evening that a classmate of mine had died and that the funeral would be on Sunday, but because my dad was so gravely ill at the time, I told the person who told me about the funeral that I might not be able to be there and the reason why.


When my father died on Sunday morning and we made plans to get him buried that same day, the funeral chapel we'd chosen told us how busy they were and it might not happen that day. But with rabbinic help, we arranged the funeral for several hours later, at 3 p.m.


Turned out that at 1:00 there was a funeral for another member of my parents' shul, someone who was my father's friend. At 2:00 was the funeral for my classmate. At 3:00 was my father's funeral.


Because it all happened so quickly and my parents' shul doesn't have a phone chain going 'cause most of the members are elderly, word didn't get out to the members about my dad's funeral. But the people from their shul who came for the 1:00 service, saw my father's name listed for the 3:00 service and came back for it. And some former classmates who came for the 2:00 service, and saw my father's name stayed for the 3:00 funeral. These three services all were perpetually linked.


We didn't know how many people would go from the chapel to the cemetery, as the cemetery is rather far out of our suburban area. But we knew that because it's so far out and confusing to get to (it's an older cemetery and many people haven't heard of it, because it's so far off the beaten path), we had to hire police escorts. Again, we were told by the chapel we weren't sure we could get any, but yes, we got confirmation there would be three. And as we rode out to the cemetery, we could see just how many people followed us, and people did take the time and make the effort to go to the cemetery. One of the nicest things is that the police escorts stop at the foot of the cemtery gates to stop traffic, and as the hearse and procession drive by, the policeman stand at attention and salute. What an honorable and respectful gesture!

And sadly, yet interestingly enough, when we got to my parents' cemetery shul section, where a grave had already been prepared for my dad's coffin, it was beside his friend, whose funeral had been two hours earlier, and on the other side of my father's gravesite was my mother's first cousin's wife, who died two years ago from pancreatic cancer.


All such last minute notice about everything, but the chapel (I was told, didn't really see for myself) was packed. As I stood on the podium reading my eulogy, I looked out at the faces, and yes, there were many of them and I was able to single out a few, but they sort of blur into one mass -- made up of our past, our present and our future.

But that is truly what life is about, and we come full circle...

My children lost my husband's mother in June, and although she wasn't visibly conscious, we had them come to her apartment to say goodbye to their savta. She died two hours later.

Although my father lay in a hospital bed for a week, in a non-responsive state, also not visibly conscious, we had the children come after Shabbos to say goodbye to their zaidy. He died about seven hours later.

Two beloved grandparents died within nine months of each other, and the children were bereft. But I continually make reference to these grandparents so that the children will see that they can too, and I encourage them to do so if they so wish. I still talk about Savta's apartment and Bubby and Zaidy's house. When my youngest started to correct himself one day and say "Bubby and -- BUBBY'S HOUSE," I told him it's still called Bubby and Zaidy's house, even if Zaidy's physical being is no longer here.

I miss my father. I miss his smile. I miss his concern for everyone and his lovingkindness for everything. It's many years already that I knew not to take him for granted, and more than anything I'm thankful for the years we did have with him, because so many times it could've turned out differently, uglier, so much earlier in my life.

It is interesting to note that for so many years, I was continually asked, "How's your father?" Even in the past few years, it was always "How's your father?" and I'd sometimes throw in "And maybe you should ask 'How's your mother?' " because she was my father's right-hand gal, his helpmate, his eshet chayil.

These days -- finally -- people are asking "How's your mother?"

Such sad irony...

I could go on and on with these afterthoughts. The truth is that I wrote and saved a blog post earlier in the week, but didn't post it. That post was descriptive details of my father's last days, of my thoughts and feelings. Do people really want to read so much about someone's loved one? I wondered. Are my details off-putting? I wondered. But they help me to remember, and re-create the moments that flew so swiftly past. But I opted for this post instead, for some of these disjointed thoughts that delve into much of what I thought/felt shiva week.

Like any good Jew, I feel guilty. Guilty for not crying uncontrollably; in fact, for barely shedding a tear. "I can't believe how composed you were," I was told by many people who'd heard me speak at the funeral. My brothers, strong, virile men, cried, and their little sister, who can cry at a TV show's music soundtrack, didn't cry at the chapel, at the cemetery, at the shiva, in the privacy of my home. I always wondered if I'd start shrieking hysterically when my beloved father passed away, but no. I was composed. I was relieved that he was at peace, that we were with him, and that he'd had a seemingly peaceful final minutes, with our hands on his chest, over his heart, letting our finger pulses beat in time with his heartbeat.

Yes, I've had my few moments when something triggered my eyes to well up, but it didn't go beyond that. Writing helps, and the fact that for me all the goodness about my father, all the positive feelings overshadow the sadness. It's truly better this way, I believe, and hopefully this emotional strength will sustain me.

One more thought (for now): it's interesting how one day, one person can only be saying the common, congregational refrain when Kaddish is recited in shul, and the next day you know how to recite the entire Kaddish!

Thank you for listening (reading)....

Something To Kvell About -- Part 2

In January, I wrote about my youngest son giving his first d'var Torah for our shul's congregation after davening. It was rather impressive then, and he gained the impetus to speak again.

Noam decided he wanted to choose his future bar mitzvah parsha, Parsat Vayikra, which was read yesterday in shuls worldwide.

Very diligently, he worked on his words of wisdom, pulling out THE LITTLE MIDRASH SAYS to guide him. Late in the week he came and read to me what he'd written. Wow, he had sat and found important things to say without my husband or I giving him guidance.

I'd invited my mother to come and be with us for Shabbos so that she could witness her youngest grandson up on the bimah, giving his "drash".

The rabbi introduced him as "nine-year-old Noam Saban, currently a student in grade 3, who, in 4 years will be celebrating his bar mitzvah with us, and will now give us a taste of his parsha Vayikra."

This boy managed to impress us all; I didn't feel right accepting "yasher koach's" for the fruits of his labor, as I truly had nothing to do with it.

To top off the afternoon, at the lunch table, my mother pulled out a gift she'd brought for Noam. It wasn't a newly bought gift, but rather one of my father's small siddurim. (prayer books) I took it from her and she told me to open it up; on the flyleaf, in my father's handwriting it said "Noam Itamar". It was as if this book would have been meant for him! And how a propos with his giving this d'var Torah that day, a reflection of what he will G-d willing speak about in four years, it was like a bar mitzvah gift meant for this little boy.

I was in awe, as we all were around the table. Even Noam stared at the book, picked it up gently, kissed it and leafed through the pages, announcing the tefillot he was finding.

My mother said this wasn't the siddur that my dad used on a regular basis, but one she thinks he traveled with, when they did travel (which was very infrequent the past 8 or 9 years). None of the other siddurim or Tehillim that my father used have any of the other five grandchildren's names written in it. This is the only one, and she thinks that perhaps when Noam was born, his Zaidy wrote his name in the book...perhaps for him to have one day.

It was very moving for us to witness Noam receiving this precious gift, for us to witness that he recognized the true value and meaning behind this special gift (highly noticeable in his look of awe as he stroked the book and kissed it) and for how fitting yesterday's Shabbos was for him to receive it.

The Beauty Remains...

Although Henri Matisse was nearly 28 years younger than Auguste Renoir, the two great artists were dear friends and frequent companions. When Renoir was confined to his home during the last decade of his life, Matisse visited him daily. Renoir, almost paralyzed by arthritis, continued to paint in spite of his infirmities. One day as Matisse watched the elder painter working in his studio, fighting torturous pain with each brush stroke, he blurted out: "Auguste, why do you continue to paint when you are in such agony?" Renoir answered simply: "The beauty remains; the pain passes."

I'd like to think of my father that way. Yes, he's gone, leaving behind a great void in the lives of many, namely his wife, his children, their spouses, and grandchildren.

But this man left us with a legacy: of Yiddishkeit, education, personal philosophies, wonderful memories, strength and stamina, to name but a few. Most of all, he left this world with a good -- a WONDERFUL -- name, one of the most important things a Jew can leave behind.

That is his gift. That is the beauty that remains...

Excerpts from a Letter...

I wrote a letter on Sunday to my first cousin (who flew in and delivered the first hesped at my dad's funeral service), his wife and children, and to his mother -- who, thankfully, survived the war with my father.


...We have now lost someone very precious to us – a father, husband, grandfather, brother, uncle: Yaakov Arieh ha-Levi.

You well know what my father was about: what human and Torah values he upheld, what respect he commanded from others when he did not seek it, what nurturing he and my mother provided, what goodness sustained him, what survivor personality helped him endure.

So many times he was hospitalized; so many times did he return home….a little worse for wear, but with all his fine attributes intact. These attributes shone through to his last days.

Yes, it was a difficult week for us, as I’m sure it was for you. But it was a much-needed week, and on my father’s behalf, a much deserved week. I’ve always felt sorry for people who haven’t had the opportunity to sit shiva for more than an hour because of a Yom Tov. As others have said, it truly is helpful.

It isn’t that I heard lots of nostalgic stories throughout the week, but it’s the people who came to pay a shiva call or those who called us from all points in the world. It was overwhelming and heartwarming to see people from all walks, from all stripes – from our various schools and universities, from our shuls, from our social circles, etc. They came out of the woodwork to honour our father’s memory…and our family.

For that reason, I wasn’t so sad; I remained composed throughout the week of his last illness, and through my father’s petirah [burial] and shiva. More than anything I’m grateful – because we had my father for so many years, and because of the solid foundation he and my mother provided for us; I’m proud of my father’s strong belief in Hashem and his always keeping his siddur or Tehillim close at hand – and making constant use of them. My father was always the “ehrliche Yid.” I am also thankful that my father is no longer in pain and that his neshama is reunited with those whom he loved dearly and missed terribly for all those years.

It is these emotions that supercede any sadness and true grief. I know that I will have many moments when I am sad because of my loss, and perhaps people cannot understand that I haven’t been crying all this time, but my father was all goodness, and that knowledge sustains me...

Hesped (Eulogy) for My Father

For several years, I used to think how I would honor my father in a hesped...what stories I would tell, what descriptions I would use.

But when it came time, the morning of March 8th, to write the words, I decided that less is more. Sure I could tell anecdotes galore -- who can't!? -- but my father was a simple and quiet man and I knew that my choice of words would hold much strength.

My two brothers spoke, and my first cousin who flew in from NY also spoke. In essence, we each said the same things, without having consulted one another. That is a true indicator that we spoke the truth, and those things we chose to say, reflect the beautiful legacy that my father left us with.

Here is the hesped I said:

Eesh Taam v’yashar. A man who lived his life straight and with great morals and integrity.

He valued and lived by common decency, strong Jewish traditions and a deep Kavanah/
faith in Hashem, hard work and a rich family life. My father was a firm believer in hachnasat orchim – the welcoming of guests – and he and my mother were open-armed to everyone.

Generous with all he had, always giving – rarely, if ever, receiving. Always trying to better life for his wife, for his children, while at the same time content with his lot. He chose to never move to a bigger house or buy big-ticket items and it was rare for him to reward himself in any way.

He raised us on shmirat ha-lashon – staying clear of slander or gossip. A few years ago, the wife of one of my father’s best friends told me, “I never heard your dad say a bad word about anyone.” To me, that was the greatest compliment because I knew it was true.

Loved by children, friends, family, and customers, my father was a charming, decent and kind man whose reputation preceded him in every way.

Although he was hospitalized several times over the years, for serious and lengthy stays, he managed to endure, my mother closely at his side. When asked “How do you feel?” he responded with “Not too bad, thank you.” His attitude and survivor mentality always came with the tag line “Let’s hope for the best.” And together, we always did!

Michael’s friend, Salem Alaton, left a beautiful note in the online memorial book. It describes my father very well. I quote: “Jacob endured so much in his life with great strength and fortitude, creating a richly fulfilling environment for his young family after the horrors of Europe. A life lived as a tremendous act of defiance in the wake of the senseless hatreds that took away so much from him.”

To extend on that, I want to read a poem I wrote and published a few years ago. It gave me great pleasure to have my father hear me read the poem at a public reading because this poem represents his life.



THE PLUM TREE

i.
Young boy – a son and brother –
You are a mentor and protector
to so many. Uprooted at an early age –
father deceased, mother struggling to raise
a young family.

ii.
The streets of your village
are awash with scholars
who study with the great rebbe –
Talmud, Mishnah, Chumash, Halacha.
You peer through the dusty cheder windows,
longing to join them.
You are too young yet.
And yet, you are too old…
The branch that your mother
and siblings cling to for support.
You must bear fruit for the others,
and labor to do so.

iii.
Nature can be merciless at times,
giving and then taking away,
wiping out traces of life and beauty.
In time, a dreadful storm comes,
wiping out that cheder, that village…
your dear ones.

iv.
But you, thank God,
have been able to root temporarily
in other places.
And slowly, slowly, you awaken
after that harsh, stormy winter.
Weakened, you are warmed by the sun;
your fragility begins to heal.
And you are replanted yet again.

v.
A husband. A father.
A mentor and protector once more.
You move silently into your verdant garden and kneel,
shovel and soil beside you.
You recall Leviticus 19:23.
“And when you arrive in the land, plant all manner of fruit trees…”

vi.
You are giving back to the earth,
Enriching it with new life. A plum tree.
Roots clinging to the cool earth, the tree grows,
flourishes…its branches strong.
Over time it bears fruit, and more fruit.
You harvest from its sweet gifts –
again and again,
repeating the cycle each year.

And you remember your roots…

vii.
“And he shall be like a tree planted by
the rivers of water,
that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;
his leaf also shall not wither;
and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.”

Psalms 1:3



[and then I ad-libbed and said something like:]

Since I was a little girl, my father and I had a sign-off, “Me-la-la,” which means “I love you.”

[I looked at the coffin at this point]

“Me-la-la, Dad. May you rest in peace.”

A Final Resting Place

My beloved father passed away last Sunday, March 8, 12th Adar, at 5:55 a.m. and his funeral service was at 3:00 that afternoon. Shiva was held this past week at my parents' house, and we got up midday Friday because of the onset of Shabbos.

There is much to say about the week of shiva, about my father's last days, and about the man himself, but now is not the time. Suffice is to say that Jacob Adler was a loved, respected and admired man by all whose path crossed his.

Life works rather mysteriously. I've written in the past about my father's early years and the fact that he lost his father when he was only 6 1/2, and a baby sister was born two months after the father died. There were also two other sisters between my father and the baby.

Unfortunately, one sister died of acute appendicitis in a neighboring town during the Holocaust, and the youngest sister died along with my grandmother in their hometown, slaughtered by the Nazis. My father and one sister were sole survivors.

A number of years ago, my parents traveled to Israel together for the first time and went to Yad Vashem. My parents thought that they should register my grandmother's name at least, but lo and behold, when they looked up her name, it had already been registered, by a former neighbor. To say my father was emotionally moved is an understatement. He so wanted to be able to seek out that former neighbor and thank her for remembering his mother, but she had already passed away.

About a year or so ago, after seeing several reminders in Jewish newspapers for people to register names of those who perished in the Holocaust, my mother and father decided that my father's two younger sisters should also be remembered at Yad Vashem. My mother completed the form, sent it in and was told it had been received, but it could take up to a year or more to actually do the formal registration.

Every few weeks while I thought of it, I checked the Yad Vashem website for the names to see if they were already listed. Deep down, I always hoped that the names would appear in my father's lifetime so that he could be at rest knowing that his sisters also had a final and proper resting place...in an archives at least, if not in real life.

When my father passed away on Sunday, I even checked the website, and was disappointed to not see my aunts' names. If I recall, I even checked on Thursday evening, when I came home from the shiva house to sleep in my own home.

I just looked at the website before I began to write this post, and lo and behold there were my aunts' names and brief description of when they died. I started to weep.

The shiva is over; the neshama (soul) of my father was said to be hovering in the home for the week. Tonight we went back to my parents' house after Shabbos to take the customary short walk that some people do after getting up from shiva, the neshama (soul) then taking its leave, rising toward the heavens.

How timely for these Yad Vashem listings to appear now, at the end of shiva, with my father's neshama departing. I am grateful as well as awestruck.

Indeed a sign of Hashgacha Pratis at work.

My father can now rest in eternal peace, his soul reunited with those of his loved ones.

May my father, grandmother, grandfather and aunts be united in a better place.

Amen.

Living for the City/Sity (thanks, Stevie Wonder!)

My verbosity comes with velocity

and I definitely have a curiosity...with words.

and a generosity...with words.



Hopefully I'm not a monstrosity...with words.



I prefer to be considered a Travelocity...with words.



Is this poem a pomposity..with words?

Oh, Isn't It Nice To Dream?

Do any of you ACTUALLY know anyone who was written up in the New York Times' wedding/social pages?

I like to look at them from time to time to see how people present themselves to the world and to their intended spouse and future in-laws.

Of course, I could never have appeared in there.

Pearl Adler, of Toronto, Canada, is to wed Ron Saban on December 19, 1993 at the Paradise Hall, with Rabbi J. Burak officiating. She will gladly take on the Saban name as her own, even if it means a hassle with having to change all official documentation and her nameplate at work.

Mr. Saban, who was born in Israel and raised in Winnipeg, Canada, is a controller for a medical lab. Ms. Adler, who was born and raised in Toronto, is a copy editor with Harlequin Books, Inc.

The couple met briefly in synagogue when Mr. Saban was dating one of Ms. Adler's friends. A year later, someone officially set them up. The rest is history.

The not-so-young couple will reside in Toronto, and will honeymoon in the early part of 1994...their destination being wherever they get the best sell-off vacation!

The couple's parents prefer not to be mentioned on this page; they are extremely modest people. Suffice it to say that they are very happy with the upcoming nuptials and with their children's choice of spouse.

Interesting Meme I Spotted

Album cover meme

1 - Go to "wikipedia." Hit “random”or click

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random

The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to "Random quotations"or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3

The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days

Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use photoshop or similar to put it all together.

Keep It? Toss It? Keep It? Toss It?

I am what one would call....how do you say it?...a PACK RAT! I hoard items for what I deem sentimental value or because I think they might prove to be needed at some time in the future.

In my parents' house, there is a place for everything. In my house, there is everything and no place to house it!

I used to collect all, and I mean every single one, of my kids' art pieces when I lived in our last house. One day, I figured, one of them might grow up to become an artist, and they might want to review the chicken scratch artwork they did in preschool. It wasn't even as if I was displaying their drawings, but I was boxing them and drawering them scattered throughout the house.

One day, before our intended move, my husband insisted I toss much of the artwork. "Save a few pieces from each child" was his suggestion. Believe me, when I say it was difficult to do.

When I think about what I saved, it was probably the same piece done by each of the kids when they were each in that same grade. So it might've been a Purim megillah (times three) that I saved from senior kindergarten, and a Rosh Hashanah letter written to the family saved from grade two.

Since we moved over five years ago, I have cut back on some of the collected artwork, but I have still saved many other items.

Yesterday, I spent a few morning hours going through my armoire drawers -- normally meant for clothing, but not in my case! -- and gathering all types of cards I've collected over the years. All the birthday cards for each child and for my husband and myself, anniversary cards, our engagement cards and wedding cards. I categorized them in large manila envelopes and put them together in a clear box, which I'll shelve in another bedroom cupboard.

I have other boxes such as this in my walk-in closet. They house other written collections: an entire five year or so letter collection from a pen-pal I had in Long Island from the time I was about twelve; a collection of earlier b'day cards and postcards and mail that I wanted to keep over the years. I truly don't need all these bits and pieces of my past, 'cause I don't even make the time to take these boxes down from the shelves and give up three hours to read through their contents. I'm just afraid that if I do toss them, I'll be sorry.

I've learned through experience, though, and from hearing stories, that it's easier to do the tossing yourself than somewhere, years down the road, having some family members just dump everything because the contents of such boxes have no meaning to them.

Sometime last year or the year before, my mother handed me an envelope. It was filled with congratulatory cards she'd received when I was born back in September 1961. I'm so glad she never tossed those cards, but knew exactly where in the house she could retrieve those cards from to pass along to me. I'd like to think that one day I might do the same for my children.

"Here, Avi/Adina/Noam, here are all the birthday cards you ever received from family and friends."

AVI: "What am I supposed to do with these?"

ADINA: "Thanks." And she'd probably proceed to look through them, laugh and remember friends' names and personalities.

NOAM: "What am I supposed to do with these?"

Sometimes I wish I weren't so sentimental. But then again, I volunteered, doing archival work for many years, and I think that all my collections -- which might not really mean much to others -- tell a story and reveal who I was, who I am, and who I might (still) become.

All those journals, letters I wrote while spending six months in Israel, snippets of ideas that never yet became literary pieces, reveal more about me than just what's on the surface.

Anybody want to learn more about me? My archive hours are Monday thru Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 12 noon. No sign-out privileges.

Worthy of a Smile

I received a comment today on a blog post of mine, and the person also told me this wonderful little tidbit, that is worthy of being shared.

When my niece Sarah was 2 (she is now 20), and was put on the phone to talk to her Nana (my Mom) and give her a Sabbath greeting, little Sarah says, in a sweet and earnest voice: "Good Shopping Nana".

Camp...for the Non-Camper

I've never been to overnight camp...or I believe in America it's called sleepaway camp. But I did recently sort of get to go to camp and experience it through the eyes of Mindy Schneider, in her wonderful book NOT A HAPPY CAMPER.

Although the book came out in 2007, I, the quintessential "late bloomer" recently discovered it.

The book became, for the most part, my Shabbos reading for a couple of weeks. It helped pass the hours, as I lived -- can't even say "re-lived" -- a Jewish overnight camp experience in Maine.

Not just any camp, but Camp Kin-A-Hurra. Isn't that just the best name!? I kept wondering if it was real or made-up. Saul Rattner, the camp owner, must've really tried to ward off the evil eye as best as he could, but once you begin reading this book, you'll discover that the camp and the campers don't have the best mazel!

Do take the time to sit back, put some bug spray on your arms, suntan lotion on your nose and wear a wide brimmed hat as you prepare to delve into Mindy Schneider's camp world of yesteryear -- the early seventies.

You'll laugh, you'll smile, you might even cry...from laughing so hard. Mindy has captured the culture of being a young teen in the 1970s, hoping to have her first boyfriend by summer's end, and making some new friends along the way.

There are photos, camp songs, and secrets tossed the reader's way throughout the book. All together, they make for a fine nostalgic walk down memory lane...if you can avoid the poison ivy, that is!

When News Items Are Within Reach

We all know of the tremendously tragic airline crash that happened last week in the region of Buffalo, New York. It is a horrible news item that just makes peoples' ears and eyes open.
We read about the victims, we read about where they were coming from and where they were going to, we read about their accomplishments and their families and their personal lives.

In their deaths, each one comes alive.

My family and I traveled this past weekend to Buffalo and Niagara Falls, Ontario. It was a long weekend in Ontario -- Family Day on Monday -- a government's excuse to break up a long, dark winter. It was also President's Day in the U.S.

We went for shopping in Buffalo and for waterpark fun in Niagara Falls.

And in spite of the spirited, fun and relaxing reason for this family getaway, it was marked by a harsh type of reality.

We checked in to our Buffalo-area hotel late Sunday afternoon, and I noticed several men in the lobby. Each time we went back down to the lobby for whatever reason, I noticed these men wearing fire and ambulance service jackets. I had a thought surface at the back of my mind, and on Monday morning, when I went to the lobby, that thought was firmed up.

There, in the lobby sitting area, were tables filled with about a dozen people eating breakfast -- most of them wore jackets with American Red Cross identifying them, and there were others with NTSB -- for National Transportation Safety Board -- on their jackets and bags. They were casually eating breakfast and watching the TV screen from time to time. When the news reporter started talking about the memorial services and the counselling services and news items about the airline crash, they were all attentively watching and listening to the TV screen.

I spoke to one of the Red Cross women: "I guess you're here dealing with the horrible crash."

Her: "Yes."

Me: "How far is it from here?"

Her: "About 5 miles."

Me: "It was truly horrible, and must be so difficult dealing with this incident. You must need counselling yourself afterwards."

Her: she laughs and says "You're right...and I'm a mental health worker myself."

I wish her strength and offer up my hope that she will not have to deal with such a tragic ordeal for a long, long time.

While checking out, I spoke to the desk clerk and told her how I noticed all the emergency personnel staying at the hotel. Our hotel was in a semi circle with about 3 other hotels surrounding it. I said, "These hotels must be filled with more of such personnel."

The clerk said yes, then told me that the families of the victims were staying in the hotel across the driveway from ours.

We can choose to listen to news items or we can look away from the TV screen details as they're described and depicted repeatedly. But when you're in the area of such a tragedy and tangible hints of it surround you, you really can't avoid the harsh reality.

My thoughts and prayers go out to the family, friends, co-workers and communities of all the victims of Continental Airlines Flight 3407...those on the airplane and the one victim on the ground, in whose home the plane crashed.

May they all rest in peace.

The Tushie Lady Is Born

Okay, so I'm fortysomething these days...edging slowly but surely to fiftysomething.

But when I was twentysomething, I was enjoying "thirtysomething"...with all its family dynamics, friendship dynamics, work dynamics and a wonderful cast.

I was a fan of Polly Draper who played Ellen, and Melanie Mayron, who played Melissa Steadman, a great photographer.

Turns out that aside from being an actress and director, Melanie is an enterprising businesswoman who, together with her father the chemist, has come up with a line of products -- diaper cream and a barrier cream for adults.

This line called Mayron's Good Baby has a cute intro story "behind" it. You can read about it at Melanie's blog.

A clean bottom is a happy bottom, so ...bottoms' up...with Mayron's Good Baby.

Whining about Wine

Got a mailing into the house from a wine/beer/liquor outlet and was perusing it today.

Even if these wines were Kosher, you would not see me buying any wine product that is called FAT BASTARD!

Could you imagine me hosting a dinner party and serving wine, handing a glass to a cherished friend and saying, "Here you go, Fat Bastard!" Don't think that friendship would last too long thereafter.

Nor would I be supporting DAN AYKROYD's label with his name on it. Is that supposed to sell me on his product? Yes, I know he's become a vintner, but I associate him with comedy, with Second City, with Saturday Night Live, with the Blues Brothers. Not with grape stomping and corks and bouquets.

I would find his vintage more appealing if his name were hidden in tiny print on the bottom of the back label, and if he just had a catchy name for his libation: Smooth & Rich. Okay, so maybe he is also smooth and rich as a person, but I'd never automatically assume that name is associated with Dan Aykroyd unless I read it somewhere.

A few years back I read about a wine that came in cartons. CARTONS? My kids' juice comes in cartons, milk comes in cartons. How could wine come in cartons? French Rabbit Wine? Merci, mais non. Pas pour moi.

Believe it or not, I'll settle for the old and familiar Manischewitz at times, Bartenura Moscato at other times or Rashi Joyvin. You can leave the Fat Bastard out of my wine cellar!

Slap My Wrist NOW!

I think I'm being punished from above.

I'm quite a nitpicker about typos and have begun to point them out to people more freely...but in a nice and "creative criticism" way.

Okay, I'm tired right now; the phone woke me up at 7:30 this a.m. from a deep sleep, and there's lots of stuff on my mind. But that is no excuse for this typo I just saw that I wrote...and that I have no way of retracting.

I found out about someone's father passing away and wrote in a guest/memorial book on a chapel website just now. I hit send, then reviewed my words.

"...may your father rest in peach."

Oh. My. G-d.

Not only is it a typo, it is a glaring, hideous error that thoroughly has embarrassed me. What will the mourners say when they read it?

I've looked through this guest/memorial book many times and have spotted lots of typos here and there and have silently wrist-slapped the person for their mistakes.

OYYYYY. I've become one of them.

I could go on and make jokes, nervous jokes about that particular typo I made, writing "peach" instead of "peace". But I won't.

Suffice it to say that I'm publicly embarrassed. My name is perpetually in that memorial book, assigned to what was supposed to be words of comfort. Turns out they became words of advice re. fashion colors!

Inspired...

A few days ago, someone I'm in touch with via Facebook, wrote little snatches of a message to me. Those snatches held some wonderful imagery and information and I told the person that maybe I should write a poem...for that's how much I was inspired.

So I did.


i. MORNING GLORY

The day, featuring a violet-blue sky
has beckoned.
With white designer umbrella clouds
dotting the washed blue,
and playing peek-a-boo
with the sun's brilliant rays.

The glimmering Pacific weaves its magic
as frothy, white caps bounce
up and down
up and down
as the waves dance into shore.

Overhead, the gulls circle,
crying, crying
"Yee-haw, Yee-haw" -- extras in an old Western.

I pick up my pace.
"Huh, Huh, Huh, Huh."
Deep, panting breaths
in time to my footwork.
Left, right, left, right
"Huh, Huh, Huh, Huh."

I feel alive.
Revived by this healthy air,
by the way my lungs are
expanding and contracting
expanding and contracting.

This is my meditation.
This is my balm.

Over sand, warmed by the sun.
Over millions of sparkling granules
my legs carry me away.
Farther and farther
from the daily bump and grind
I call "a life."

ii. AFTERNOON DELIGHT

Stretched out on the chaise,
sketchbook and pencil in hand,
I stare off into the distance,
a slight frown on my lips.
I lift my hand and begin to draw.

Bold lines this way,
Slashes that way,
Shading at the edges.

I put down my pencil
and look at the page.
What was once blank,
pure linen white,
now plays host to
a drawing of a man,
stretched out on a chaise,
sketchbook and pencil in hand,
a wide smile on his face.