Tomorrow night, our eldest, Avi, will be graduating from middle school -- grade 8.
In my day, we called it junior high; in my day, graduation took place at the end of grade 9. Grades 7, 8, 9 comprised junior high. These days, grades 6, 7, 8 comprise middle school.
I still remember September, 9 years ago, taking Avi to school for senior kindergarten. At the time, I was still on maternity leave, till October, with my youngest son, Noam. I would take Avi, and shlep the baby in his carrier till Avi was settled in the school yard with his friends.
It's been very interesting and wonderful to watch him grow up over the years since senior kindergarten. His general characteristics of being kind and respectful, shy, but happy-go-lucky have not changed. His love of sports -- especially baseball -- has not changed. His learning methods have not changed. His teachers' comments about him have not changed. His choice of friends has not changed.
He's a good boy, who still needs to discover the world, take it by the horns and make it his own. I'm hoping that it will come with maturity and more experiences -- perhaps high school will do the trick.
Avi, mazel tov on reaching this wonderful milestone. You are a mensch who makes us proud.
May you go m'chayil l'chayil (from strength to strength), and continue to be a happy boy, who has been known for years as "SMILEY."
We love you.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
My Parents
This photo was taken one Sunday morning in late December at a cousin's bar mitzvah. My father, as a Levi, was given an aliyah, and I believe it was probably his last one.This is my dear "Swiss Miss" mom, Lilli (she should be well), with her -- and our -- beloved Jacob (Jack).
Father's Day is coming up this Sunday. Without my father.
My parents' 53rd wedding anniversary will be coming up on June 24. Without my father.
My father's 89th birthday will be on July 4. Without my father.
"Without my father." What a sad refrain, isn't it? But it's a reality these days, and once again, I am more than thankful for the many years we had WITH MY FATHER.
Hug your parents. Tell them how much you love them. Bring honor to the family name. Make your parents proud. Realize they are simply human -- like you -- and make mistakes, as well.
And always, always keep your treasury of family memories alive.
Monday, June 15, 2009
A Life in Pictures
My brother sent me this link to this wonderfully moving photojournalism essay.
Study each picture, study the words, study the facial expressions, study the love of a son for a father as depicted visually and via the written word.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Happy Birthday...Now Pay Up!
In less than an hour, my oldest son will G-d willing turn 14 years old. Fourteen years ago on June 14, 1995, I gave birth to this beautiful 9 1/2 pound son in a very short time frame and with no drugs. Okay, lots of screaming on my part but no drugs.
You know what? Come to think of it, these days, there is still lots of screaming on my part but no drugs. I guess that's par for the course of having 3 children -- one teenager, one prepubscent daughter, and a nine-year-old.
Anyhow, I was just going through emails after Shabbos and there was one from Avi's orthodontist."A REMINDER FROM DR. SHAPIRO'S OFFICE said the subject line. I suddenly thought, "Does Avi have an appointment early next week that I didn't remember?" I opened the message and it said "Happy Birthday, Avi, from Dr. Shapiro and the team!"
I smiled and then thought to myself: this is not like a $3 or $4 Hallmark or American Greetings card, this is like a $5000+ card... After all, if it weren't for Avi's braces and dental work, Dr. Shapiro wouldn't even know our family -- or the birthday boy!
And I recalled other b'day cards we receive annually...from our financial advisor. Hmmm...those cards for myself and my hubby also come at a cost. It's more like an investment, I'd say.
Isn't it interesting to note that b'day greetings often come with (hidden) price tags...?
Thursday, June 04, 2009
1000th Post aka The Men in My Life
I began this blog in late 2004...and am now at my 1000th post. Yes, the posts have slowed down over the past year or so -- not because of time restrictions, but because of not always having something to say, or to the other extreme, having TOO MUCH to say yet thinking "Who would want to read these inner-most deep feelings...maybe I should keep something to myself."
But in any case, this post is a tribute to the men in my life, for they are all good men with good hearts, generosity of spirit, and true menschlichkeit.
My father, Jacob, z"l, who passed away on March 8th, reigned supreme among these men. He led by example, he didn't practice idle gossip or slander or lies. He was a straightforward man, a decent businessman, and generous beyond his means. A loving father, a wonderful husband, he only knew how to give. Sometimes he simply reacted to circumstances, not completely thinking them through, but letting his warm self shine through.
Last night, when my husband did something really nice for me, along the same lines as my father would've done, I recalled this incident.
Some 25+ years ago, I had a summer office job, which I'd recently started. At the time there were some serious family matters going on, which often took my parents' attention. One day, around noon, I called and spoke to my mom. I then asked, "Where's Dad?" She didn't know, saying he'd just gone out with the car.
About 10 minutes later, the office door opens, and in walks my dear father...a smile on his face and a bowl in his hands. That bowl held cherries. "I washed them for you. I wanted you to have them." Now some people might think that was some kind of smothering parental tactic, but I say absolutely not. This example simply reflects who my dad was: he thought of something, wanted someone to have it, and made every effort to give that person that something. He took pleasure in others having pleasure.
I wish my father were around today to bring me another bowl of washed cherries...
Last night, I was attending my oldest son's baseball game. My husband had taken my youngest son to his game a couple hours earlier. It was very cold and I could've stood to be wearing a winter jacket and gloves while sitting on those metal benches. But not me, just a long-sleeved top, a hoodie on that and a light spring jacket.
I'd spoken to my husband and asked if he had any blanket in his car, which he could bring to me. He didn't, so I said forget it.
About 40 minutes later, I called home, wanting to know if he'd arrived home and to let him know that I was coming home for something warm. My daughter told me that Ron had already been home and left.
Not 10 minutes later, he's crossing the park field toward me with a blanket and two chair pads to sit on.
I turned to my friend alongside me and said, "That's Ron for you. And that's something my dad would've done too."
And I know that is something my two older brothers, Michael and Jerry, would have also done. They continually give of themselves, expecting nothing in return. We used to say that my brother Michael was most like my dad, but throughout my father's extended illness and hospitalizations, I realized that Jerry too was very much like my dad.
I am proud and thankful to say that my two sons, Avi and Noam, follow the Adler men in their demeanor. They are considerate, they are generous, they are sensitive to others' needs...and it all shows naturally.
May Hashem bless the men in my life to continue living life in the warm and generous way they do...just as my father did.
But in any case, this post is a tribute to the men in my life, for they are all good men with good hearts, generosity of spirit, and true menschlichkeit.
My father, Jacob, z"l, who passed away on March 8th, reigned supreme among these men. He led by example, he didn't practice idle gossip or slander or lies. He was a straightforward man, a decent businessman, and generous beyond his means. A loving father, a wonderful husband, he only knew how to give. Sometimes he simply reacted to circumstances, not completely thinking them through, but letting his warm self shine through.
Last night, when my husband did something really nice for me, along the same lines as my father would've done, I recalled this incident.
Some 25+ years ago, I had a summer office job, which I'd recently started. At the time there were some serious family matters going on, which often took my parents' attention. One day, around noon, I called and spoke to my mom. I then asked, "Where's Dad?" She didn't know, saying he'd just gone out with the car.
About 10 minutes later, the office door opens, and in walks my dear father...a smile on his face and a bowl in his hands. That bowl held cherries. "I washed them for you. I wanted you to have them." Now some people might think that was some kind of smothering parental tactic, but I say absolutely not. This example simply reflects who my dad was: he thought of something, wanted someone to have it, and made every effort to give that person that something. He took pleasure in others having pleasure.
I wish my father were around today to bring me another bowl of washed cherries...
Last night, I was attending my oldest son's baseball game. My husband had taken my youngest son to his game a couple hours earlier. It was very cold and I could've stood to be wearing a winter jacket and gloves while sitting on those metal benches. But not me, just a long-sleeved top, a hoodie on that and a light spring jacket.
I'd spoken to my husband and asked if he had any blanket in his car, which he could bring to me. He didn't, so I said forget it.
About 40 minutes later, I called home, wanting to know if he'd arrived home and to let him know that I was coming home for something warm. My daughter told me that Ron had already been home and left.
Not 10 minutes later, he's crossing the park field toward me with a blanket and two chair pads to sit on.
I turned to my friend alongside me and said, "That's Ron for you. And that's something my dad would've done too."
And I know that is something my two older brothers, Michael and Jerry, would have also done. They continually give of themselves, expecting nothing in return. We used to say that my brother Michael was most like my dad, but throughout my father's extended illness and hospitalizations, I realized that Jerry too was very much like my dad.
I am proud and thankful to say that my two sons, Avi and Noam, follow the Adler men in their demeanor. They are considerate, they are generous, they are sensitive to others' needs...and it all shows naturally.
May Hashem bless the men in my life to continue living life in the warm and generous way they do...just as my father did.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Someone Left His Good Manners at Home
This is just going to be a rant post.
I was at a very elegant fund-raiser dinner last night for our children's school, which celebrated its 25th anniversary. The dinner honoured the school's nine past presidents, as well as one of its benefactors who died too young, too soon.
Along with being a parent at the school, I volunteer for different programs at the school -- including being on one of the committees affiliated with this dinner. I am never a leader, but am happy to be a follower, thus I sit on committees, I don't head them.
I wouldn't be wrong to say the school population is somewhat elitist, in many ways. Just come to the parking lot and you'll see countless luxury vehicles. Check out the addresses of the students, and you'll see what I mean.
I have no interest ever in "keeping up with Cohens" but it is always clear to see how "money talks."
Last night I was standing alongside my husband as he talked to an acquaintance. A few minutes later, another school parent came hurrying over, hand outstretched to my husband's acquaintance and immediately started talking to the man.
This "young pisher" -- a good 10 years our junior -- not only interrupted my husband's conversation, he didn't even bat an eyelash to my husband, nor to me, and gave a return limp handshake to my dear husband, who stretched out is hand in a menschlich kind of way. I was shocked as I watched this other person, and I could see my husband was also taken aback by this young man's abrupt/rude behaviour.
It isn't as if we don't know him, or he doesn't know us. Our kids are in school together, often socialize together, we've sat at their Shabbos table in the past, we make it a point to be friendly whenever we see he or his wife, even if we don't move in the same circles.
I so would have liked to say something to this guy. And I can imagine him saying "I'm sorry...I didn't realize what I was doing." But I wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt; I can imagine this scene replaying itself over and over, knowing who this person is and what his station is in life.
I recall relaying something similar in a post a few years ago; the setting primarily was the shul we attended at the time, as well as the kids' school. I think sometimes that rude stems from a feeling of entitlement.
So in the meantime, I have to air my grievances publicly on my blog, without naming this person, but truly wanting to do so.
Rudeness and bad manners simply rub me the wrong way. When a type of arrogance is enmeshed in that rudeness, I am more than peeved.
Aside from wanting to confront such people about their behaviour, more than anything, I hope they will be on the receiving end of such behaviour time and time again. Maybe they'll begin to recognize just how wrong it is....
One can only hope!
I was at a very elegant fund-raiser dinner last night for our children's school, which celebrated its 25th anniversary. The dinner honoured the school's nine past presidents, as well as one of its benefactors who died too young, too soon.
Along with being a parent at the school, I volunteer for different programs at the school -- including being on one of the committees affiliated with this dinner. I am never a leader, but am happy to be a follower, thus I sit on committees, I don't head them.
I wouldn't be wrong to say the school population is somewhat elitist, in many ways. Just come to the parking lot and you'll see countless luxury vehicles. Check out the addresses of the students, and you'll see what I mean.
I have no interest ever in "keeping up with Cohens" but it is always clear to see how "money talks."
Last night I was standing alongside my husband as he talked to an acquaintance. A few minutes later, another school parent came hurrying over, hand outstretched to my husband's acquaintance and immediately started talking to the man.
This "young pisher" -- a good 10 years our junior -- not only interrupted my husband's conversation, he didn't even bat an eyelash to my husband, nor to me, and gave a return limp handshake to my dear husband, who stretched out is hand in a menschlich kind of way. I was shocked as I watched this other person, and I could see my husband was also taken aback by this young man's abrupt/rude behaviour.
It isn't as if we don't know him, or he doesn't know us. Our kids are in school together, often socialize together, we've sat at their Shabbos table in the past, we make it a point to be friendly whenever we see he or his wife, even if we don't move in the same circles.
I so would have liked to say something to this guy. And I can imagine him saying "I'm sorry...I didn't realize what I was doing." But I wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt; I can imagine this scene replaying itself over and over, knowing who this person is and what his station is in life.
I recall relaying something similar in a post a few years ago; the setting primarily was the shul we attended at the time, as well as the kids' school. I think sometimes that rude stems from a feeling of entitlement.
So in the meantime, I have to air my grievances publicly on my blog, without naming this person, but truly wanting to do so.
Rudeness and bad manners simply rub me the wrong way. When a type of arrogance is enmeshed in that rudeness, I am more than peeved.
Aside from wanting to confront such people about their behaviour, more than anything, I hope they will be on the receiving end of such behaviour time and time again. Maybe they'll begin to recognize just how wrong it is....
One can only hope!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Scared Canine Gets Smart!
Our dog, Max, is rather smart...even if he cocks his head sideways sometimes as if he's clueless as to what you're saying.
Here's the perfect example from tonight:
I wanted to let him out the back door to do his thing in the yard, and he went out a couple of paws (translation: inches/yards), then headed back into the kitchen almost immediately.
At first I had no idea why he'd done that, but I heard the sound of fireworks, and that's when I saw Max run upstairs. I'd assumed he'd gone to hide out on one of the beds he enjoys sleeping on.
Nuh-uh! When I followed him upstairs, I found the dog under the computer table in the main upstairs hallway.
When had he gotten into social sciences textbooks? How had Max known that during air raids, bombs, earthquakes, and school lockdowns people are told to hide under tables and desks?
I guess to him the sound of exploding fireworks mimics that of exploding bombs, and he thinks "bomb=hiding under desk"!
Then again, maybe he figured that sooner or later I'd end up at that computer writing a blog post about how smart he is, and knew that my presence would be an added comfort.
Smart dog -- he was right!
Here's the perfect example from tonight:
I wanted to let him out the back door to do his thing in the yard, and he went out a couple of paws (translation: inches/yards), then headed back into the kitchen almost immediately.
At first I had no idea why he'd done that, but I heard the sound of fireworks, and that's when I saw Max run upstairs. I'd assumed he'd gone to hide out on one of the beds he enjoys sleeping on.
Nuh-uh! When I followed him upstairs, I found the dog under the computer table in the main upstairs hallway.
When had he gotten into social sciences textbooks? How had Max known that during air raids, bombs, earthquakes, and school lockdowns people are told to hide under tables and desks?
I guess to him the sound of exploding fireworks mimics that of exploding bombs, and he thinks "bomb=hiding under desk"!
Then again, maybe he figured that sooner or later I'd end up at that computer writing a blog post about how smart he is, and knew that my presence would be an added comfort.
Smart dog -- he was right!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A Shoe-In
What do Dorothy and the Pope have in common?
[Cue (annoying, yet catchy) music from Jeopardy...]
She visits the Emerald City. He lives in the Vatican City.
Nope. Not the answer I was looking for.
The shoes. Those red (Prada, I'm told) shoes of his keep him grounded. Dorothy also wore red shoes.
Remember the refrain after she clicked her heels 3 times? "There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home."
Well, I've been informed of the answer to the question "Why does the Pope wear red shoes?"
In case he needs to get back to the Vatican real quick, he clicks his heels... and says..."There's no place like Rome...there's no place like..."
Now I don't truly mean to insult his eminent Holiness, and I understand that the wearing of those red shoes have a history and a meaning, but c'mon, those shoes are so "fly" that I'd expect to see them on this website. Talk about a pair of traffic stoppers!
Skin-Deep
Thanks to good genes, I have good skin. My whole life, my face was normal to dry, so for the past 25+ years, I've used daily moisturizer, namely Pond's. A simple cream for simple needs.
The past year or so I've begun to notice a bit of sagging in the lower mouth area and a few more laugh lines round my eyes. Okay, granted, I certainly don't get enough sleep nor do I drink enough water. Lack of those two makes for these facial skin changes, I'm sure, but now I have to work with what I've got.
It's time I need a little more than what Pond's Daily Moisturizing Cream has to offer, but I don't want to spend big bucks either on beauty products. And so I've been working with some sample-size products before I make any purchases.
But I just looked over the array of samples, and I don't like what I'm seeing -- the names of these products:
Dove Pro*Age (ready to give back to your skin what it needs right now): Neck & Chest Beauty Serum
Olay Definity: Re-energizing Serum
(Night) Restorative Sleep Cream
Lise Watier L'Experience: Morning Potion
Age Spot Control Serum
Nighttime Skin Rescue Creme
L'Oreal: Advance Revitalift Deep-Set Wrinkle Repair
Ewww, the word "serum" has such medical connotations; I don't like to think I need a serum to help prevent aging.
n. serum [ˈsiərəm]
a watery fluid which is given as an injection to fight, or give immunity from, a disease
There are other options, I know, but plastic surgery isn't one of them...I'm simply not that vain enough for any mini Botox or Restylane injections.
Here is probably the best solution to my problem. But until I get to the hardware store to buy a lifetime supply of light bulbs, I'll stick to my Pond's.
The past year or so I've begun to notice a bit of sagging in the lower mouth area and a few more laugh lines round my eyes. Okay, granted, I certainly don't get enough sleep nor do I drink enough water. Lack of those two makes for these facial skin changes, I'm sure, but now I have to work with what I've got.
It's time I need a little more than what Pond's Daily Moisturizing Cream has to offer, but I don't want to spend big bucks either on beauty products. And so I've been working with some sample-size products before I make any purchases.
But I just looked over the array of samples, and I don't like what I'm seeing -- the names of these products:
Dove Pro*Age (ready to give back to your skin what it needs right now): Neck & Chest Beauty Serum
Olay Definity: Re-energizing Serum
(Night) Restorative Sleep Cream
Lise Watier L'Experience: Morning Potion
Age Spot Control Serum
Nighttime Skin Rescue Creme
L'Oreal: Advance Revitalift Deep-Set Wrinkle Repair
Ewww, the word "serum" has such medical connotations; I don't like to think I need a serum to help prevent aging.
n. serum [ˈsiərəm]
a watery fluid which is given as an injection to fight, or give immunity from, a disease
There are other options, I know, but plastic surgery isn't one of them...I'm simply not that vain enough for any mini Botox or Restylane injections.
Here is probably the best solution to my problem. But until I get to the hardware store to buy a lifetime supply of light bulbs, I'll stick to my Pond's.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Red, White and Blue
So I'm driving north on Bathurst Street (the unofficial/official Jewish thoroughfare in Toronto) late yesterday afternoon, and the farther north I got, I began to hear honking and see people waving flags out of car windows and from sun roofs -- huge flags, medium-sized ones -- and cheering.
When I reached some major intersections, cars began honking at one another in greeting, and people are waving to each other... It was as if they had a secret language, one I was not privvy to.
People at bus stops are waving at each of the cars bearing flags, and vice versa. Fists shoot up in a victorious manner.
And all the while, I'm clueless. What country are these flags from? What is the emblem on that flag over there; which country is that from?
When I reached a certain intersection, where there' s a plaza and large parking lot, I see cars assembled on the parking lot, with flags flapping madly all around.
Was there some sort of international soccer game I hadn't heard about? No doubt there had been some sporting event...so when I reached home, I immediately went online to do my research.
Of course, Russia beat Canada in the World Hockey Championships in Bern, Switzerland.
That was the flag/emblem of Russia I was seeing; the northern neighborhood I was driving in is very Russian-oriented, and they were the people assembled and celebrating in the plaza parking lot and waving from the bus stops.
I can well imagine how many bottles of vodka people went through yesterday in celebration of this sports victory. Although immigrants to Canada, and many of them rather recently, these people still salute the Russian flag and their homegrown winning sports teams.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Coffee, Tea, Soft Drinks...or Kibble, Anyone?
This is the logo for Pet Airways...where your pet is a "pawsenger".
Max flew to Toronto from Quebec, when we first got him, but he was no doubt in cargo. Why not let our beloved pet fly first class via this airline?
[from their website]
How Pet Airways Flies Your Pet
The Pet Airways Promise
We promise to transport your pet with lots of love, care, safety, and comfort in the main cabin.
Pet Airways is the first airline exclusively dedicated to pets - no humans please - and we take the job of providing a comfortable experience for pets very seriously.
We'll do everything in our power to make sure your pets get the best care during their journey because we're committed to taking care of our pet "pawsengers" as if they were our own.
The Pet Airways Travel Experience
1. Drop your pet off at our Pet Lounge, located at the airport. You must check in your pet no later than 2 hours before take off. If you choose, you may check in your pet up to 72 hours before the flight. We’ll be happy to board your pet at our PAWS Lodge until the flight.
2. Potty Breaks are very important to your pet. With the human airlines, your pet could be made to hold themselves for a very very long time. Pet Airways monitors the last time your pet had a potty break, and makes sure that they get regular potty breaks along the way. This means that it may take us longer to get to where we are going, but the care of our pawsengers is our first priority.
The Pet Airways Promise
We promise to transport your pet with lots of love, care, safety, and comfort in the main cabin.
Pet Airways is the first airline exclusively dedicated to pets - no humans please - and we take the job of providing a comfortable experience for pets very seriously.
We'll do everything in our power to make sure your pets get the best care during their journey because we're committed to taking care of our pet "pawsengers" as if they were our own.
The Pet Airways Travel Experience
1. Drop your pet off at our Pet Lounge, located at the airport. You must check in your pet no later than 2 hours before take off. If you choose, you may check in your pet up to 72 hours before the flight. We’ll be happy to board your pet at our PAWS Lodge until the flight.
2. Potty Breaks are very important to your pet. With the human airlines, your pet could be made to hold themselves for a very very long time. Pet Airways monitors the last time your pet had a potty break, and makes sure that they get regular potty breaks along the way. This means that it may take us longer to get to where we are going, but the care of our pawsengers is our first priority.
3. Pets board the plane and our Pet Attendants make sure they’re all comfortable and that they, and their pet carrier, are secure.
4. A Pet Attendant monitors and checks the comfort of all pawsengers every 15 minutes during the flight. After landing, pets will be disembarked, given a potty break, and will be available for pickup at the Pet Lounge.
5. Pick up your pet up at the Pet Lounge at your destination, knowing he or she has traveled comfortably and safely in the main cabin of our plane. If you cannot pick up your pet that day, we will be happy to board your pet overnight at the PAWS Lodge.
Each time pets move anywhere, from the Pet Lounge to the pet limo or from the pet limo to the plane, we track and record their progress, which means you can monitor your pet’s journey every step of the way online at Pet Airways Pet Tracker. Our Pet Airways Promise is that your pet will never be left alone. A pet attendant will always be within a cat's meow.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Patrimony by Philip Roth
Last night I completed reading Philip Roth's memoir, Patrimony, a story about his relationship with his father as his father was diagnosed with a brain tumor and eventually succumbed to it.
It is such a moving story, and one in which I find several familiar scenes that I can relate to.
My mother-in-law died last June of a brain tumor, having been diagnosed not even a complete six months earlier. We watched as her body began to shut down.
My own father had a brain tumor diagnosed back in 1981. He was operated on, and it was discovered to be benign. But it was the scar tissue and fluids over the years that built up, pressed on nerves and caused him grand-mal seizures, and his eventual death.
Roth examines his own thoughts and feelings as a son who has to figuratively hold his father's hand through Herman Roth's diagnosis and physical setbacks. As his father continually reviews life in New Jersey as he once knew it, Roth listens and nods again and again, the nostalgia feeding him at times while at other times making him nauseated.
As his father's disease progresses, without the tumor being operated on, save for a biopsy, Philip watches and records his father's decline. It hurts for him to record it; it hurts for us to read about it.
And in those last hours: “Dying is work and he was a worker. Dying is horrible and my father was dying. I held his hand…I stroked his forehead; and I said to him all sorts of things…”
I could've written those words...first about my mother-in-law, and then about my father.
When my mother-in-law was dying last summer, her sons, daughters-in-law and young grandchildren did those things.
My brothers and I, our spouses and dear children did exactly those things, said all the endearing words and relayed our personal messages to my father in March, watched as my dear mother had to do the same. Although our words were met by silence and closed eyes that entire week, we continued to do so. My brothers and I were there with my father, seeing him through the last night, listening to the labored breathing, and near the end, as the pattern and sounds changed. There was almost a gentleness, a calmness, an acceptance of the inevitable end. With our hands on my father’s chest, his breathing slowed, slowed and the last breath was taken. And still we continued to stroke his hands, his forehead and whisper our messages…for the soul is said to still be there to listen and understand, even if the body has ceased. Our rabbi said that we should comfort the soul before its journey. It was the week of shiva that was to comfort us….
And as Roth said: "A mystery, scarcely short of divine, the brain…” So true. The brain, with all its achievements, yet with so many deficiencies, continued to astound me as I watched my mother-in-law and father's mental/physical abilities decline.
I highly recommend reading this memoir; it allows us insight to the mind and personal life of an award-winning, longtime author. We ride along with his pain, and we smile when he does, too.
His father, Herman, was a real character and a tough man in so many ways, providing much source material for his son to write about. May he rest in peace...
Sunday, May 03, 2009
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...?
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
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...
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 GHETTOThe 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...
Sunday, April 05, 2009
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.
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)....
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)....
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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.
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