The Fractured Shofar

 Thoughts on The High Holy Days 2024

      On Wednesday, October 2 at sundown, Jews around the world will observe Rosh HaShannah, the Jewish New Year.  This is not streamers and party hats, this is self reflection, prayer, and usually a delicious meal or two with family (given or chosen).  

  Our year is 5785 - and as the old joke goes - we will be writing 5784 at least until Cheshvan. 

  But this year, along with the savory brisket, the sweet round challah and the familiar sound of the shofar, many of us have broken hearts.  We are coming to the one year anniversary of the deadly Hamas attack on in Israel on October 7, and nearly one year of constant fighting in Israel.  We have also witnessed unprecedented antisemitism here at home.  I know that I am not alone when I share with you that I have been entirely miserable, angry, scared and deeply sad. 

  I became a grandmother about a year and a half ago.  This joy represents the complete opposite end of the emotional continuum - my jubilation when I learned I would be a grandmother, meeting my babies for the first time, holding them, now playing with them, watching them as they take their first tentative steps and start to say words - this joy is filling a place in my heart that is hard to describe. Love, brilliance, laughing at nothing, pure positivity.  

  Is it possible to feel both divine joy and utter sadness at the same time?  If I do not compartmentalize this sadness, and, at the same time tamp down the need to call the kids and facetime with those babies, how is work to be done? How is a lesson to be written? A child to be taught?  Laundry to get washed? 

  In a very timely book entitled "Not a Mahzor: High Holiday Reader 5785" Rabbi Jeremy Markiz wrote an essay that addresses exactly this.  His conclusion (I urge you to buy the book, link below) is that our hearts are actually big enough to hold all these feelings.  This really resonates with me.

 When I first became a parent, I felt my love for my first child so intensely, so emotionally that I didn't think it was possible.  We knew we wanted a bigger family, but as I was expecting my second baby, I worried - how could I love this next baby the way I loved the first?  When she was born it was obvious.  My capacity for love just increased.  (And again with my third child.  Just imagine it now with two grandchildren!) 

  We are stronger than we think and we can be simultaneously worried, hurt, angry, in love, joyful, proud and determined to overcome adversity. Will we ever be truly joyful with no restraints again on Simchat Torah (the Hebrew calendar's anniversary of 10/7) - I don't think this generation can. There are still 101 hostages in the caves tunnels of Gaza.  In synagogues we set an empty chair for them. At home we still light an extra Shabbat candle for them.  This nightmare may fade, but the scar will last for my lifetime.  I can find fun in music, in family, in my students' ah hah moments, in a favorite movie.  And at the same time I hold deep sorrow and anger. 

  I asked ChatGPT to create the image for this blog post.  A fractured Shofar. We are fractured but we are still here.  Rabbi Markiz also says in his essay that we don't need to go it alone (I'm paraphrasing). It's hard to find community but now's when we need it the most. I urge you to find your community, your Kehillah and connect or reconnect. I'll try to follow my own advice as well.

 L'Shannah Tovah U'Metukah 

Not A Mahzor: High Holiday Reader 5785

Letting Go

This essay, appeared in the Jewish Journal on July 27, 2017, but was written about a month before that.  Thank you to Editor Steven Rosenberg for publishing it and for his help in keeping the story short and (bitter) sweet. 

JULY 27, 2017 – Scrolling through social media yesterday I stopped to “like” my friend’s post. Actually, these days you can “love” a photo, and as I held the like button down to get to the word “love,” I felt tears welling up.

The picture was his 9-year old daughter, getting on the bus to go to sleep-away camp for the first time. There she was, this little girl, in her denim shorts with the white lace cut-outs, a hot pink baseball cap and a back-pack that looked like it held absolutely nothing, looking back over her shoulder, waving a final goodbye to her daddy.

Thirteen years ago, right around now, I was packing up my youngest child, a skinny 10-year-old boy, for sleep-away camp in the Berkshires. He had slept soundly the night before. I had been up until some ungodly hour, labeling every item of clothing, folding bedding and towels, cramming sports equipment into a huge duffel bag, and writing our address and stamping envelopes he’d never use.

Jacob loved camp so much he called it his home away from home. His camp friends became his best friends. He went back summer after summer and although he always continued with his Jewish studies through our synagogues, he will credit camp with the most vital of his Jewish learning, growth, and identity.

As his sister had done, he took advantage of the camp’s trip to Israel when he was 15 and the bonds with his friends became deeper. As his brother had done, he went to Israel for his junior semester abroad, and like his parents, attended Tel Aviv University.

I really wanted to visit him there and I knew he was wary about the whole family descending on him while he was studying abroad.  Looking back on my own experiences, I was a bit hesitant when my parents visited me at age 20, living in the dorms at Tel Aviv University. When I got on the plane in Newark that December, I was already quite self-confident, but I had never really had the experiences that would form the core of whom I was to become.

I did things in Israel I would never have done here in the US. Camping in the Sinai, no tent, just a sleeping bag under the stars, watching the sun come up over the Red Sea. Having nothing more critical to do than go snorkeling and trade for eggs and pita with the local Bedouin kids.

Hitchhiking on a day off from classes to get to the beach with a few American friends, realizing I had spent the whole day speaking only Hebrew. Going on a date with an Israeli guy and finding out that, due to the fact certain words were not yet in my vocabulary, I had agreed to going to a live sex show! Afterward, of course we went out for a snack, and as I learned, he knew the best place for hummus.

After all I had been through, I wasn’t so sure I was ready to be “parented” yet. I had also changed physically, my once straightened hair now long, slightly bleached by the sun, and curly. But when my parents arrived, after they got over the shock of my sundress, Israeli sandals, and wild hair, we had a fine time, and they wined and dined me, even setting me up on a blind date.

Believing I had my own son all figured out, we booked the trip anyway and planned to tread lightly on his schedule and plans. We took my older son and daughter, and thought we had a wonderful time.

After Jacob had been home for quite a while, more than a year, he referred to that time as less than stellar. I felt I had done so well in mastering the fine line between family time and giving him space. We fed him well, and then left him alone. But I guess that was not how he best wanted to spend those days. I then realized not only is he not a junior me, he is also not his siblings.

When Jacob graduated college last spring and announced that he won a fellowship to teach in Israel, I felt conflicted. Everything indicated parenting gone right, right? Then why did it feel so wrong? It would be a 10-month job. Apartment, car, money for food; a mother’s dream for her child. Except that I was no longer a part of that dream.

And, he asked us not to visit.

How sheepish I feel when speaking to people about how proud I am of the work he’s doing in one breath, and in the next answering the obvious question: “Well, no, I didn’t get to see him there this time.”  I just can’t bring myself to say “because he didn’t want us to come.” I told my husband recently I wonder if I will look back on this and regret it, or if I did the right thing, respecting his autonomy.

This Israel-loving, independent child is now a 23-year-old young man who is living a life that I barely get to see. There have been some posts on Facebook, short messages via WhatsApp, and a few phone conversations. Just enough to know that he’s fine.

And recently, sadly, when my mother-in-law passed away, Jacob was on a plane and with our family as we grieved. There was no conversation about whether he should come home, just the logistics.  He was fully present and there when it mattered.

He is due to come home at the end of next month. Texts about jobs and plane tickets go unanswered. I look forward to seeing him, and hopefully, having my choices validated. As surely as I returned from Tel Aviv a changed person, I am considering that this is what will happen with my son. But his way.

For now, I have had to settle for scrolling through all of my friends’ photos of camper’s smiles, with the hope that I will see my son’s smile somewhere in my news feed.

Jacob and me at a Tel Aviv Beach during his Junior year. 

Juliet Barr is married, and the mother of three. She is a Jewish educator and has worked in congregations and Jewish federations in Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York and Washington. 

Family Dinner

Since 1987, when my husband Michael and I packed up our baby son and drove from San Francisco, across the United States to live back in the great state of New Jersey... we have had a tradition of the Family Dinner with my parents.

At first, it was just natural.  We lived in their house while we were looking for a new home, so every night was family dinner.  Actually what I remember most was keeping my two cats locked upstairs in what used to be a playroom (now my mother's art studio) and our beloved 5:00 cocktail hour when my husband and my dad would both come home from work and we would meet in the kitchen for martinis and laughs about the day with our  joyful toddler Zachary bouncing from one person's arms to the next.

Soon we were in our own home, with our daughter Maddie joining the family; my brother had moved to the area as well soon to start a family of his own. Family dinners were usually on Sunday nights.  We chose places which were kid friendly.  I remember that Chinese food was a favorite of ours.  There was also a deli we loved.  We had a pizza place we adored, and it was there, a few years later,  having pizza and a great antipasto when we got the phone call that my niece Talia was born!

We meet and share the news the of the week.  New jobs, new boyfriends and girlfriends (the kids, not the adults... don't worry!), house troubles.  The snow.  The rain. The hurricane.  If the weather is terrible we meet for dinner.  If the weather is great... we meet for dinner.  We bring sad news, and we bring great news.  Heavy news and frivolity.  We laugh and we  are sometimes loud. We sometimes change seats before dessert.  We sing Happy Birthday in Hebrew.  Jacob and Ben, the same age, would sword-fight with tooth-picks when they were little.  Then, in the blink of an eye, they were already in the "sneak-texting" phase!

And before we knew it, our first was grown and off to college, and the reservation was for 10 and not 11 anymore.   And more often than not, the kids had things to do, rehearsals, social engagements, homework.   And just this September, the last grandchild, little Talia went to college.  Family dinner is just six of us, my parents, my brother and his wife, my husband and me.

We went out to dinner last night.

My brother chose sushi, because it was his birthday... 5 days ago.

As we order I think about all the years of the family dinners.  My husband isn't here because of work. The kids are all off, three are in college, two of mine are already through with school and on their own. October has been a rough month for me and I am somewhat pensive.

My parents are through with the menu and my sister-in-law and I are ready to order.

My brother pours some sake into his glass while we wait for the waitress.

He starts a story.

"When I was in London, sushi was very rare."
"Too bad," Dad says, not missing a beat, "because it should have been raw!"

While we are laughing over this I get a text.  As impolite as it is, I secretly check my phone at the dinner table.  It's a photo of my three kids.

They are having family dinner at my daughter's house tonight in Cambridge.  They know I love a good selfie, so they sent it to me before they cleaned up the dishes.

I see they sent it to my husband who clumsily tries to send back a smiley but sends the angry face emoji by mistake.

I smile, and I hear myself laugh.  I look up and see my brother has caught me "sneak-texting" on my phone.  I slip it back in my pocket.

Surrounded by love, I get back to the family dinner. (Insert happy emoji here.)

Very Mature

Whenever I do something particularly grown-up, I feel the need to call my mother.  You might think, at my age, that I would have outgrown this habit, but, no... actually... I do it more and more as I do more and more grown-up things.

When Mom texted me about getting together for Shabbat dinner, I had to immediately text back that I was at Lowes BUYING A WASHER AND DRYER.  All caps to emphasize I was doing something uber mature, not to indicate I was yelling at her.

Our washer AND dryer have been barely working (the washer walked all over the basement and the dryer only fluffed, it didn't actually dry clothes) for about 3 years.  It was past time.  My husband did a small amount of research, and I reluctantly went along, since I am the once who does ALL the laundry. 

We chose Lowes, and the experience was not horrible. I nearly forgot why we were there when the brightly colored yard furniture lured me to the garden area.  Spring flowers also nearly made me forget about the laundry room altogether.  But my husband remained steadfast.  I was heard to say "We're on a mission from God" in my best Chicago accent, as we headed to the large appliance section.

The top of the line washers are so high-tech you can program your iPhone to interact with them.  I think they also iron your clothes for you and feed your cat when you're not home.  The dryers have so many settings that you can dry each item at a different level of dryness. They're super quiet while running, and  they call you on your phone with a jaunty British accent when the load is done.

We went with something a bit more middle-of-the-road.  Our new washing machine tells me exactly how many minutes the cycle will take, and how energy efficient the load is.  The same with the dryer, and it's SUPPOSED TO turn itself off after everything inside is all the way dry, but after load one, that did not seem to be the case.  I may have not used the correct settings, there are so many to choose from. I can't program it from my smart phone, but that's okay.  I don't see why I need to program the washing machine from the living room, unless they invent one that sorts the laundry and puts it in the machine by itself.  (Oh, they do.  It's called hiring a maid to do your laundry.)

So this may be too much information, but I also texted my mom just now to say, yes... I also scheduled my colonoscopy and my breast MRI.* Because even though nothing is wrong, and I haven't even had a cold this winter (poo-poo, spits on the ground) I got those two letters from the two doctors about 4 months ago, and have left them in the middle of the "Juliet pile" for long enough.  Whenever they reach the top, I pile other papers on top of them.  But today, I thought about all the great things ahead, concerts to see, and Seders to have, and children to hug, and I thought about Warren Zevon (he ignored his health) and I picked up the phone. Whether you are a cancer survivor or a survivor of life there's no sense in not having these tests done.  I promise I won't blog the details... I can't promise I won't blog the results. 

I think to celebrate my new maturity, It's time to do a little shopping online... I saw a nice tie-dye skirt in a catalog yesterday... and some new sandals to make me feel like spring will be here any minute.  But no need to text my mom about that.   

Well I gotta go, I have work to do, and besides, I just got a call from an English woman that my laundry's done.



*Mom texted back immediately: proud of u.  (She loves doing the abbreviation thing.) 
*I had a clear mammogram 6 months ago, but due to my age and cancer/radiation history, they want me to have an MRI.

Always look on the bright side of life...

Did Monty Python come up with that?  I know that's the song that's going through my head this morning...
(Click here to see that clip from the movie, but please come back to the blog afterwards, okay?)

I fell down the stairs yesterday.

It's not as bad as it sounds.
Well, maybe it's actually worse than it sounds.

My little cat Jinx is dying very sick.  (Stay with me.  There will be a bright side to this.)

In the words of our very good, but not-exactly-a-people-person vet, "he's living on borrowed time."
Jinxy has been a good little cat all these years (11 1/2), or let's say 11 and 1/3.  

I did not name him after the cat from "Meet the Parents." I named him after a bartender I knew in Durham, North  Carolina, named Jenks.  The best story I remember about Jenks is this : It was Christmas Eve, 1983. I took the shift at the bar (why not?) and Jenks was there having his usual...a vodka and coffee. (Redbull had not been invented yet.)  The crowd had died out, it was the regulars and the staff... We were playing the music loud. Suddenly Jenks jumps up and grabs the Christmas garland, drapes it over his shoulders like a feather boa and before I know what's happening : Jenks is strutting his stuff and singing his heart out to "Santa Baby" dancing on my nice clean bar top.  It's been one of my favorite Christmas songs ever since!

Where was I? Oh, Jinxy.

The last month or so he's been getting a bit yucky, as animals do when they are reaching the pre-death stage of decrepitude.  I think this helps making the good-bye a little easier.  I don't mean to sound so callous, but to put it right out there, Jinx has been completely missing the cat box for about 2 months now.  He smells terrible. I could go on, but I think you get the idea already and I'm bumming myself out.

So I've been doing my best to clean up after him BEFORE stepping in his messes, and trying to remember the good times, but he's taken a bad turn.  As of now, he's still drinking water, and eating very expensive, special, canned, gooey, stinky food, into which I have to mash a pill, and stir it with a spoon.  (Of course it has to be me.)

When I got home from work last night, after a very long day, I mixed up this revolting concoction and brought it downstairs, to the cozy little spot he's chosen to spend his remaining days.  But I missed a step on the wood stairs and slipped down five stairs on my back.  Getting his foul-smelling brown slop all over my linen pants and wool sweater.  Landing hard on my butt and wrist onto the tile.  AND, right into the cat's random poop, which was several feet away from the catbox, as usual.  

I did not curse.  There is no singular curse that exists for OUCH-YUCK-SHIT-WOW, REALLY OUCH-GROSS-UGHCH-. and besides, my young,  niece was upstairs, and she's a high school junior.  I didn't want to shock or offend her innocent ears.

So I picked myself up, and gave the cat what was left in the bowl. I pet him and tried to show him a little love, and cleaned myself off.  I changed my clothes and took an Advil with a healthy swallow of a Seabreeze.   I went in to tell my husband what happened, and he had no clue at all that I had fallen down the stairs, and, in fact, forgot that Jinx was sick. 

Jinx, in September of 2013

I hobbled to the couch and put on the tv.  An infomercial was advertising Carol Burnett's DVD. And I thought about how comical this story could seem, telling this story in a few years.  Okay, days. Okay, so I'm telling it now.  Because sometimes you just have to laugh.  Because sitting there, despite my already aching back, sore wrist and smelling like cat food, I remembered that my life doesn't suck. My kids are healthy, so are my parents.   I remembered that the reason my niece was hanging out here is because her other grandmother (my sister-in-law's mom) just had a stroke, and my brother and sister-in-law had to rush up to New Hampshire to be with her. She's doing much better as I type this, but that's the big stuff, and we can pull together as a family to do whatever they need us to do.

We have a roof over our heads and food on the table.  

I have to get to work, but I thought you'd enjoy that little glimpse into a moment in my life.  For a look into the lives of two people who right now are living extraordinary lives, I am sharing the links to two blogs I've been following.  Both will make you feel  grateful for what you have, and both will  might even make you want to do more for others.  At this time of Thanksgiving, I hope you find them meaningful, as I do.

I started both of these stories from the middle, and worked backwards and then forwards.  The are both compelling and both made me cry. They are both a lot bigger than losing a beloved cat and falling down the stairs.  I thank both of these sincere brave women for sharing their personal stories with the world and putting it all out there.

Click here to read about Rabbi Phyllis' story about her son Superman Sam's battle with Cancer
Click here to read about Rabbi Tziona's journey to become a parent.

Stay in touch people.  We all need each other.  When we see each other remember to hug.  (I promise I don't still smell like catfood.)

Update: 12/17/13 :  Jinx is alive and darting around the house.  He's on life #6 or #7 I guess. My bruised derriere is mended, my sister-in-law's mother is doing very well, and life goes on.

Update: 1/10/14 

Jinx died in his sleep last night. He was a good little cat, and I'm much sadder than I thought I'd be. 

A Byte of a Peach

Chapter One: It Begins

Greetings from beautiful Montage Mountain near Scranton.  I am at a 4-day music festival, and I will attempt to blog it as I go... the perspective of a 53 year old woman diving in head first to a weekend of fun.  

I have been to festivals like this before, but usually I go for one day, the day when my favorite bands are all neatly lined up in a row.  I knew what to expect, as much as anyone could without having been to this site, as far as the "scene" was concerned, and I'll try to describe that to you.  And full disclosure, I am not camping at the concert site itself, but staying at a very comfortable, clean Marriott with shuttle bus service (we hope!) to and from the venue.

The author and her husband take a selfie.  Yep, having fun so far.

So why now?  Because it's the anniversary of Woodstock? (It is, but no, that's not it.)  Because we can suddenly afford to do this kind of thing? (No, not really, in fact, I don't get paid during July and August and we need a new roof. Frankly things are quite tight in the Barr household!) Well, then, it must be because we are empty nesters and we are living the dream! (Again no, and not a midlife crisis thing either.)  It's because of the line-up of music at this particular festival and the perfect timing of it as well.  I have come to really love the Allman Brothers (over the last 15 years) and my favorite, Mr. Bob Weir and his band Ratdog are headlining this mighty event.  Not to mention Rusted Root and the Black Crowes and a host of other bands that I either like or am destined to like! (Click here to see what your are missing while you are reading this blog.)

So here's my thinking.  I am here, and experiencing this great, exciting, exhausting, exhilarating experience for the first time.  Mixing it up with the teens, the Deadheads, the Allman Brother fans (who are not exactly the same as Deadheads, though there's an overlap), the locals who are just here because, well, why not and the families who came to Montage Mountain to take their kids to the water park and are probably wondering, WTF is going on here! I'm here with some good friends and my husband. There are people of all ages, and to be sure, we are among the older generation, but certainly not the oldest. 

I will try to update this blog from an app I have on my phone, and include pictures.  

Of course this means finding my reading glasses and increasing the font on my iPhone.  
But I think it will be a fun experiment in live-blogging.   Did I just invent that?

Rock on.
Chapter two

Strangers stopping strangers, or "Are you Juliet?" 

I guess it's not too surprising that at an event like this, I'd run into one or two people that I know. And it's been happening at an alarming rate! A religious school principal from Long Island that I've gotten to know from Jewish education conferences, a 21 year old friend who advised me on what to pack (who I saw about 15 minutes after I arrived), a guy we met on a Jamaican vacation, and the most surprising: A woman who said : "Are you Juliet Barr? "

Me: "Um, yes..."

I know for a fact I don't recognize her. Could it be? The blog????

No...

The woman: "Didn't you go to the Grateful Dead Movie recently? Sunshine Daydream? At Clifton?"

I did in fact. Yikes. A stalker ?

She continues: "You commented on that website and asked where people were meeting up. You look just like your picture! I'm Kari!" 

She did not look like her picture, which was a kitty wearing a tie-dye bandana. 

Ok, back to the music. 

Chapter 3: 1:09 am Saturday 

Wow! What a night of music! I'll write more tomorrow from my computer but while I'm still buzzing from the hours of dancing to great guitar gods, here are some highlights: 

•Railroad Earth and Cabinet! Great bands that I had never heard before and will absolutely go hear again! These guys can really play, harmonize and both bands bring several genres together.  I am excited for the future of live music when I hear this kind of stuff. 

•Bob Weir's set was AMAZING!! "Althea," a favorite of mine, did not seem to be a favorite of his, but he was just great on everything else. " Easy to Slip" may have been the most special surprise. Most annoying was his flirtation with Grace Potter, when he called her out for "Dear Prudence" and "I Know You Rider."  Still sporting the man capris, but he looks great to me!

• Allmans were great, especially when Greg let Warren take the lead. A nice surprise came near the end of the set when they invited Bob Weir back out for a very bluesy "Good Morning Little School Girl." 

And remember in chapter two, I mentioned an educator friend that I had run into here? Amazing karma connected us where we needed to be. Her seats were right next to mine! I enjoyed the show with her tonight and look forward to spending time with her again tomorrow. I still can't get over that! A photo will be coming soon of the two of us. 

I can't wait for tomorrow!!

Chapter 4

Derek Trucks, Warren Haynes, and Steve Kimock. Yea. 

Chapter 5

Different font to show that I am no longer at the festival. Yes, that's right. It's Sunday night, and I'm home.  You know how they say they have charging stations? Well, they CHARGE you to charge your phone at those charging stations.  Big scam.  So my brilliant plan to live blog while at the festival... well as brilliant as it was... turned out to be a good old fashioned plan to keep a hand written journal which I am now transcribing into my blog.  And it's probably better this way.  I can edit.  I can add photos. Did I mention I can edit?  So here we go.

Chapter 6:  My husband sometimes sleeps at concerts.

Deadheads are very forgiving about this.  Looking back, he has a long history of concert-napping, and if you've been a fan as long as we have, then you might even kind of get it. Remember those old shows?  Come on... there were about 20 minutes between EACH SONG!! So think about the second set of a Grateful Dead show in about 1979 or 1980... drum solo followed by a really long instrumental tuneless jam ... some of us might go use the bathroom and get a snack.  And others, MANY others, I might add, would use that time for a quick (30 minute) power nap.  (Except we didn't call them power naps back then.  We called them Drums ->Space, but not the point.)  

As I mentioned earlier (chapter 3) we had assigned seats for the headliners of the show on Friday and Saturday nights at the Peach Fest.  I sat next to my new/old friend Karen, from the education world, and my husband Michael found himself next to a great guy, Mick, and Mick's friends Pat and Amy.  (Those ARE their real names.  Hi if you happen to read this! The friends we came to the show with were in the next section over.) Somewhere during the Allman Brothers' set on Friday night, Michael dozed off, as he is wont to do. Mick gave me a look, I smiled back and asked him to please keep his voice down, so we wouldn't wake him.  When the music picked up, Michael woke up and rocked on 'til the end of the show.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon.  Michael and I are hanging out by our car, enjoying cocktail hour before the show.  Along come Mick, Pat and Amy... another great coincidence in a huge parking lot that they walk right past us... and Mick makes a few jokes... about Michael being awake long enough to finish his beer and so on. We go back and forth at Michael's expense, and throw in a few barbs about Greg Allman and say good-bye until later.

Now, to steal a line from Ron White, I tell you that story, to tell you this one... As I say, Deadheads are much more forgiving than other fans.  

Several years ago, I'll guess '93 or '94 (I could Google it now that I'm home, but I don't feel like it) we went to see the great and wonderful Eric Clapton. The show was in the never wonderful Long Island.  Getting there from New Jersey is horrible.  We got there, it was a Friday night so OF COURSE there was traffic.  Michael had been up since 5:30 am, worked all day, and, okay, let's put it out there, has never been a huge fan of the the Mighty Slowhand.  So at a certain point in the show, he dozed. I was up and dancing, and a few guys were yelling.  I suddenly realized that they were yelling at us.  Actually they were yelling at Michael.  

"Wake the fuck up! You can't sleep during Eric Clapton!" 

"How can you sleep? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

And other things as well.  Worse things that I won't type.

Then they started throwing things at him. 

Luckily he slept through all of this and has no memory of it at all. 

Well of course he does now because I've told the story about twenty times.

So, okay. He falls asleep during concerts sometimes.  If I feel like he's missing something crucial I wake him up. It doesn't bother him and it doesn't bother me.  And if it bothers those "Clapton is God" guys... well... they need to wake the fuck up.

Chapter 7: How to Pack for a Four Day Festival 

You need to know this about me.  I'm the one who needs a suitcase just for my shoes. I'm a low maintenance kind of person, but I like to have a lot of stuff to play with.  I have my hobbies, I like my music, and I enjoy eating and drinking.  So when I don't have to get on a plane, and there are no passengers in the back seat, I tend to fill the car up until there's no more room.  So, you might want to take these packing tips with a grain of salt.  Actually, I brought salt and pepper, of course, to season the food.  I also brought Krazy Salt, a 50's throwback seasoning that helps a hardboiled egg become delicious. 

Funny that I have not uploaded any concert pix yet, but I manage a photo of Krazy Salt.

So, here you have the step by step instructions for packing for a festival, for grown-ups:

1. Do all the laundry in the entire house.
2. Call Text a young person who has actually been to a festival. Ask for some tips.  Edit that list so it's appropriate for someone your age.  Add it to your list.

(My list had a baby list, which went on to have twins. I needed a small suitcase just for my list.)

1. Take the day off from work to start getting ready.  
2. Deal with your kids/pets. (If you are bringing your kids/pets to the show, please see my next entry about concert etiquette.)
3. Clean up your entire house, or do the best you can and prioritize.  For me, it was kitchen, cat boxes, bedrooms, bathrooms.  NEVER leave the washing machine or dishwasher running when you're gone, by the way.
4. Now you can (and really should) start packing!
5. Sunscreen, bug repellent, flashlights, citronella candles, beach chairs, lawn chairs, coolers, ice packs, ice, beach blanket, beach towels, hats, sunglasses, raincoats, umbrellas, shoes that can get wet, shoes for walking, sandals, extra sandals just in case, long pants, shorts, t shirts, sweatshirts, toiletries, medication, jewelry, i-stuff (pod, pad, phone and cords), laptop if necessary, little bluetooth speaker, corkscrew and bottle opener, books and magazines.
6. Food and drink... this is your choice of course.  I hardboiled eggs (as noted above) and brought bread, cold cuts, mustard, tomatoes, hummus, babaganoush, 4 different kinds of pretzels, including the stale kind, pita chips, 2 different cheeses, yogurts, and cottage cheese. I had bananas and peaches which got kind of mushy, but we ate some of them.  We had beer and tequila, and our friends had wine and vodka.  I packed 2 knives, a cutting board, napkins, forks, spoons and plastic knives.  I did forget plates.  We managed to get all of this in my little red Prius, and I was still able to see out the back. 
7. Things I brought that you might not bring: My bead box, so I could play and create. My laptop to upload photos and to write.  My husband also brought his laptop because he had to do some work on Friday and he wakes up much earlier than I do. (See chapter 6!) We had a lot of limes to go with the tequila.  You may not need to bring limes. That could save you some room.  It also turned out we did not need four chairs, but we had no way of knowing that.  

So, how would YOU pack for a 4-day festival?  Did we NEED all that stuff?  Well, now let's not confuse want with need, okay?  We did not need the flashlights, bug repellent, or citronella candles, but I think it was a good call to bring them. 

And it could be argued that one pair of sandals might have sufficed. After all, Bob Weir wore the exact same outfit all three days he performed.

Continued in the next blog entry... with photos and picasa link ...

Once In A While You Get Shown the Light

August 6, 2013

I'm in the midst of composing two other posts... but this just happened and for all of you teachers, educators, and counselors out there who wonder why we keep fighting the good fight... this will remind you, and make you feel like truth, justice and the American way is on your side.  Or at least you'll feel all warm and fuzzy for a few minutes.

I got a call from my son yesterday.  He works at the URJ Eisner Camp, so a call is rare.  He was on his way back from a doctor's appointment so he had time to chat.  (Let's not think about the fact he was using his phone while driving, okay?)

First things first.  How'd the appointment go? This is not germaine to the blog, but as a Jewish mother, I wouldn't want you to think that we didn't discuss my son's health.  He and I then checked in on the rest of the family, and I told him about some adventures I had. 

Then this.

Mom, do you remember a kid named Alex P. back from when you were the principal at Temple B'nai Emunat Yisrael? 

YES!  Of COURSE I do!  I LOVED Alex!  

Well, he is in my friend Steve's bunk, so I don't know him that well. Apparently he had a pretty good first half, but then all his friends left, and he's struggling during the second half of camp.  When he comes to adventure he seems like a good kid but Steve said he's starting to act-out in the bunk.  Then when they were at Limmud (the educational period of camp) he was asked who his role model was. He said, "Juliet Barr."  I wasn't there, but Steve figured out that it was you, Mom.  So I reached out to him, and told him who I was, so he would know he had a connection and a friend.

I was temporarily speechless.

Then I went on to tell my son about my special connection with Alex, and what I thought might work... he was really great with younger kids and took on responsibility very well.  I felt like reaching out to Alex's mom, but I might just hold on to this moment.

I am his role model.  Why?  Because I saw past his behavior and into his heart?  Because instead of punishing his "attitude" I saw something beyond it, found a way to turn it around and allowed the synagogue to become a safe place.  I'm sorry the rest of his teachers and counselors still aren't seeing this too.  

And how wonderful that I found out.  That somewhere at Eisner Camp, a counselor put two and two together, with this exotic last name of BARR and mentioned it to my son, who actually remembered to tell me.  So I can know that that meeting when I stood up for this child and explained that punishment and make-up assignments would do absolutely NOTHING to help him, but having him help in the first grade class would, actually did.

May all of you teachers have a moment when you hear that you are a student's role model, hero, or favorite teacher.  I feel like SuperWoman today.  Where's my cape?


Of course the name of the student and the synagogue have been changed.  The name of the camp really is Eisner Camp and magic happens there.  And my name is actually Juliet Barr.

Good-bye Dear Friend

A beloved friend, Aharon Bezalel, passed away about 3 weeks ago.  I have known him more than half my life, and have come to think of him more as family than as a friend.

I can't think when I first met him.

But I do know exactly when I last saw him.  My dad and I were spending a few days in Jerusalem this past January, and I could see that Aharon was not his usual self.  I didn't know this would be the last time I would see him.

Aharon was an Israeli, born in Afghanistan where the climate was not particularly friendly to Jews.  (Not like now!)  According to Bezalel legend, he was a little boy when he and his family walked to Eretz Yisrael (the land of Israel) so they could live in freedom as Jews.

When I really got to know Aharon, his wife, and his three daughter, Butzit, Tali and Yael, I was living in Tel Aviv for my Junior Year of college.  They were the closest thing I had to family, and Aharon insisted that I join them on many weekends.  I can remember arriving just in time for a lively family meal, where I was included at the table and enjoyed great dinners and conversations that I could barely understand at first.  Saturday, Shabbat, I was left to my own devices as the sisters all went out on their own, and Aharon disappeared into his workshop in the morning and then he and his wife would spend the afternoon napping. I'm now quite a fan of the Shabbat nap!  But back then I'd take long walks and explore Jerusalem, or sit and read in their fantastic garden.  It was here that my Hebrew got better and better, I felt at home in Jerusalem, and in their house. By the end of my semester, they had become my Israeli family.   

Yes, that's me with the short hair, making matzah with Aharon in 1980.

  Over the next 20 years, we would see each other whenever we could.  Aharon's art was famous on an international level, and he frequently travelled to New York, among other places.  He was a guest at our Passover Seder on more than one occasion, and he loved it when I told the story of making matzah in his brother's garage when I celebrated Passover with his family in 1980.  I saw his daughters less often, but we tried to stay in touch, and finally with email and then with Facebook, we started to reconnect in ways that we could not have done before.  I remember conversations with Aharon in my parents' living room that showed how deeply he understood me, and the love he had for me and my family.  It was startling sometimes to see how much could be conveyed without and beyond words.

Perhaps the most moving, emotional and uplifting time we shared as a family was when my oldest son, Daniel, became a Bar Mitzvah in 2000.  It had been his dream, and ours as well, to celebrate in Israel.  But of course, we also knew that we wanted Daniel to be called to the Torah here in the US, so that we could share this simcha with the family here.  So that is what we did.  In May of that year, Daniel became a Bar Mitzvah at our synagogue in Suffern NY, and when school ended we took a family trip to Israel with Maya, who was 10, little Jack, who was 6.  Joining us were my parents, my in-laws, my brother's family, our best friends, and a dear friend of my mother-in-law.  My mother, who has spent more than half of her life dedicated to leading trips to Israel for our local Y, sat with me and helped me to plan the trip of a lifetime for this family group.  We'd get our own bus, and we'd have the most remarkable tour-guide.

But where should we have Daniel's Bar Mitzvah ceremony?  

Since Daniel had already become a Bar Mitzvah, I had been working with him to write a short, meaningful service, which could include a few different readers. We immediately eschewed the idea of the Western Wall, as we would not be at all comfortable with separating men and women for an event like this.  Another popular option for many tourists is on top of Masada, but this did not sit right either.  And because it was July, we were not sure everyone in our group would even make it to the top of that mountain in the desert.  

My mom was researching restaurants that be big enough to accommodate our whole group, as well as the ever-growing Bezalel family.  But there was no need for her to make the phone calls.   Aharon lived in a great place just above his sculpture studio.  He invited us to bring our party to his house! Although our group would never fit inside his house, we could dine on his rooftop.  

We were thrilled with the idea and when we got there it was overwhelmingly beautiful. He had ordered wonderful  food from a Lebanese restaurant in town and his daughters had decorated his rooftop with fresh flowers, candles, and tiny little lights strung from poles across the walls.  By now his three daughters were parents as well, and their children couldn't wait to meet their American "cousins" and try out their English.  Daniel led the short service, and they all ooh'd and ahh'd at his flawless, yet American-accented, Hebrew.  Then we ate,  drank, and sang songs, while the lights of Jerusalem danced in the distance.  After a while, the kids disappeared to play inside, and the grown-ups continued to eat and drink and sing some more.  Aharon sat contentedly at the head of the table, with a huge grin, knowing he had brought his family together.  Hebrew and English were co-mingling right there at the table, and it was a truly a celebration of much more than one young man's rite of passage.  It was the joy of two families sharing a real bond that transcended beyond age and  language.

Aharon, in the center of things, has made the crowd laugh.

I couldn't resist.  Young Daniel, at 13, leading us in prayer.

Since then we have been together many more times.  

When Daniel turned 20 and took his Junior Year in Israel, he spent many weekends at Aharon's house, and spent a Passover there that was unforgettable.  Although we missed him at our Seder table, at least we knew he was with his "other family."

Tali, Yael, Me, Butzit, January 2012

And this past January, my Dad and I took a trip there.  I was so glad that I spent time, meaningful time, with Yael, Butsit, and Tali, my Israeli family.  And I saw our beloved Aharon, this patriarch, for the last time. 

May his memory be a blessing to us all of us who knew him, and may his story inspire all those who are fortunate enough to be touched by it.

Where's the Big Puppy?

By Guest Blogger Scout Barr

Guest Author: Scout Barr

I'll be filling in today for the Big Mommy.  That's what I call Juliet.  I offered to write a piece for her blog, and she said it would be okay, as long as there were a few photos and no typos.  If you think it's easy to type when they haven't clipped my toenails in months, think again.

I'm worried.  I know Big Mommy has a lot of readers, so I'm hoping someone can help me.

The Big Puppy is missing.  At first, I thought he'd be right back.  After a few days, I thought maybe it was one of those longer trips he sometimes takes.  Then it became clear that he was not coming home.  Big Puppy has never been gone this long.  And Bear and I are starting to worry.  Without the Big Puppy, things are going to be pretty dull around here.  Here's what he looks like.

Big Puppy

In our pack, there's Bear, the other canine*, and Big Daddy and Big Mommy.  They take care of us.  They sometimes leave, but they always come back.  Ever since I was born, they have been here.  Back then, there was Little Mommy too. To show my love for her, I sleep on her bed and chew up her stuffed animals.  When Little Mommy comes for a visit, she can tell how much I love her.  Little Mommy takes Bear and me for really long walks, sometimes up to the mountain.  And the Other Daddy who doesn't really love us, but is nice to us and will take care of us when he visits.    

 Big Mommy,  Big Daddy in the back
Little Mommy, Other Daddy and Big Puppy Seated in the Front

And there was Big Puppy.  Big Puppy was one of us.  Big Puppy walked us every day, and fed us sometimes.  Big Puppy took us outside no matter what the weather was, and played rough with us.  Big Puppy stopped whatever he was doing to show us love, and he and I grew up together.  I slept next to him at night.  Big Puppy has gotten bigger and bigger, but he always makes time for us.  

Bear Barr

But Big Puppy has been gone for a long time.  After a few nights of waiting by the door and sleeping in Big Puppy's room, I realized he wasn't coming home. I started sleeping in Big Mommy and Daddy's room, where it's cooler.  Bear still sleeps outside Big Puppy's door, like he's still waiting.

Other Daddy and Little Mommy have come to visit, but still no Big Puppy.  Sometimes Big Mommy takes us  outside and she tries to play with us the rough way, but it's really not the same.  A few times she even threw the frisbee and the football for us.  (Lame.)  Bear and I humored her for a few minutes but then we just came in and let her give us a cookie and plopped by the front door and waited for someone more fun to come along.  

So if any of you have seen Big Puppy, please tell him it's time to come home now.  It's just not the same without him.  

*There are other pets in this house too, but until the Cat and the Turtle start being even remotely fun, they do not get a mention.