Carry that weight

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Throw Back -- Any Day

The other night I had dinner with my parents.

Just me, and my mom and dad... it was really nice having them all to myself.  It was a rare occurrence and I was basking in all that attention.  We lingered over cocktails, and took our time over dinner as well.  We spent a lot of the conversation on my kids (how great they are) and then, over decaf, my mom took out a photo album which blew my mind a little bit.

When I was 8 and my brother was 5, my grandfather Benjamin turned 75 years old. My mom and her sister threw him a surprise birthday party at a local restaurant.  I remember bits and pieces of this, because of a significant moment... that being that I received a swat on the head from my mother for saying something I shouldn't have.

After all these years of having a memory of that night felt more like  a series of fuzzy  snapshots...my grandparents smiling, my itchy dress which didn't twirl, sitting with my older cousin Barbara who I always admired (and still do of course), saying something and having everyone laugh (except my mom), and thinking to myself, "who would ever want cigars for a birthday present?"... I finally saw the photo album of ACTUAL snapshots my dad made for my grandfather after the event.

I guess when my Pop died (nearly 30 years later!) they got the album back, which explains why I never saw these pictures growing up.

So here's a photo essay and a little walk down memory lane in a blog where the pictures speak for themselves.  But just in case, I have added a few captions.

December 2, 1967

The Clinton Inn

Benjamin and Madeleine, aka Poppa Ben and Mom Mad walk in... Surprise!

I'm guessing those little hands are my brother Geoffrey's, but they could be mine.
That's my mom Paula on the left, and her sister, Auntie Jan on the right.

In come my OTHER grandparents, Ysobl, Grandma, and Herman, Pop Pop.
It would be years before this expression would come around, but worlds did collide.

My mom, her mom, and little me, next to my cousin Barbara.

Oh, would I love to know what they were saying to each other.
I'm sure what I was hoping was:
Mom Mad: "I never make Juliet pick up her toys... do you, Ysobl?  Ysobl?"

A fantastic photo of Mom Mad and Poppa Ben.
Or, as I spelled it for years, Pop-A-Ben, probably because of the Rice-A-Roni commercials on tv.

A really great photo of my parents, and my Aunt and Uncle.
L to R: Paula Cantor (30) William Cantor (30) Jerry Spiro (52 z''l) and Janet Spiro (41 z''l)

Pretty typical shot of the grandkids with the birthday man.  Missing is cousin Mark who was a first year at the Citadel.
L to R: Barbara (15), Me (8), Pop, Geoffrey (5), Gary (12) 
Looking good in the bowtie, bro.

Back when I used to pretend I liked cake. 

I had to enlarge this because there's so much going on here.
The big question for me is... what's going on with Uncle Murray and the waitress?

And then it happened... someone gave Pop a box of fancy cigars with a special one on top, wrapped separately.
"Big deal," I said, "One cigar." This shows the moment my mom thwacked me across the head. Barbara, behind me is already laughing.

Unfazed by the head-swat, I wait for a better present to come along. Pop is cracking up, and look at the smirk on Auntie Jan's face!  Little Geoffrey is uncharacteristically sucking his thumb.

Pop-A-Ben, a big fan of the home-made cards.  Whatever my gift was, it had to have been better than a cigar.

Tucked into the photo album is a thank you note from Pop to my parents.  It's so beautiful and grateful.  We were living in Boston at the time and had driven down and kept the whole thing a secret, apparently a very tough thing for me to do.  (Probably still would be.)

 "I have had many surprises in my life but the one at the Clinton Inn was the happiest since all the family were present (except the Plebe)...Juliet and Geoff were remarkable in keeping the secret.  I asked them so many questions and not once did they slip..."

How precious these photos are...thanks Dad for taking them and thanks Mom for letting me borrow the album and scan them all.

Post script...
A conversation after writing this blog...

Me:  Mom, did you read my blog? I think you'll like it.
Mom:  No.  Where is it? On Facebook?
Me: Yes.  I tagged you in it so you can find it.
Mom: Oh, Jewel, you know, I can't seem to find anything on Facebook.  I keep getting a message that says "page not available" or "please refresh page."  You need to come and spend a whole day here and show me how to use it again. 
Me: Nevermind, Mom, I'll just email it to you.
Mom: Okay, I might have time to read it tomorrow between my Pilates class and taking my paintings to hang before the opening of my art show.

Me... (sufficiently humbled) Okay.
Next day, via email...
Jewel, great blog, I loved loved loved it. But you should add that it was Mom Mildred who gave Pop the cigars, which makes the story even worse (better?).

So here is a picture of Mom Mildred, who was Uncle Jerry's Mother, sitting next to my PopPop, not sure why.  She loved us to pieces, and was really like a third grandmother to us.

Left to Right
Unknown Aunt, My Pop Pop (Dad's Dad), Cousin Gary (with Camera) Mom Mildred (Uncle Jerry's Mom)
Pop Pop Herman was not related to either of those two women.  I don't know why he was sitting there.  

Teach them Diligently Unto your Children

I woke up this morning like I do most mornings.  About 3 hours after my husband to a friendly lick on the knuckle by my dog Scout.

It was 8:30 am and he was right, time to get up.  If I chose to ignore this gentle wake up and "hit the snooze" (that is, roll over and ignore him) then the more insidious, double-dog bark alarm would go off in about 14 minutes which is a terrible way to start the day.

I reached for my phone... come on... you all do it don't you?... and oh... yes... right.  My beloved Israel, being defended on Facebook by all my friends and bashed in the real world by pretty much everyone else. Another day of trying to stay away from, but being drawn into the conflict that consumes my heart, my faith and my people.  And trying not to take personally the vitriol, the negativity, the biases that I am reading.

And then it hit me.  I mean it really hit me.

I was meant to come back to being a religious school director at this time for this reason.  To continue the path of peace.

I have always taught peace in my schools, and urged my teachers to do so as well, no matter how we may have felt in our hearts.  Every generation MUST be taught peace, and the faith-based classroom is the perfect place to do it.  You may think that their parents are teaching their children this lesson at home, but I will challenge you with this: if that is the case, then why are we still seeing kids bully other kids for looking different? For being gay? For praying in a different building? Parents continue to teach their own biases, sometimes deliberately, and sometimes not.  It's only with mindful parenting that the cycle stops with the next generations.

But we can challenge it in the classroom.  We can send those kids home with a simple question and maybe, just maybe change the conversation at the dinner table.  Or at least the language.

It's time for me, and the brilliant teachers and Rabbis I will have by my side, to teach peace while we teach everything else we do.  Even if sometimes we feel like we want to have a different discussion.  Because that's where peace will really start.

With our children, and then, with theirs.

Not just in Israel, but in the Ukraine. (Did you see the news today?)

And on the playgrounds in the USA.

And in all places where there are people who need this now.

Strangers Stopping Strangers

For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute.  Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City.  I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in  a concert in Central Park.  So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music.  I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.

The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful.  I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle.  At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station.  This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden.  It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub.  (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)

It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.

I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look.  He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me.  He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day.  (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap.  He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing. 

As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought.  He was typing away on his phone.  

About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe?  His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long.  They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn. 

And he was shouting this up and down our car,  "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"

Everyone looked down.  Or out the window.  Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy.  Wandering on a train asking for $2.50. 

And I did what I always do.

I took out my wallet.  And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.

But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."  

I just looked at him, and started to smile.  

He continued, "If you will give it to him."

I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money.  He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.

Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money.  I can't reach my wallet.  We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him?  What if he just spends it on drugs?  Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."

"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."

My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."

Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me.  Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."

"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.

"Oh, I never thought of that.  So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"

"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.

"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head!  You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.

"I think that's for other people to do."

We are almost at Penn Station.  We are both standing up near the door.  I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need.  He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.

We say good-bye.  He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness.  I go off to mine, already in progress.

As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me.  I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy. 

And for a little while, all is right with the world.

Photo credit: Jack Baribault

Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me. 



*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.

Going to the Dogs

I have been working a lot lately.  Too much. Yesterday, on a bright, sunny May day... I was forced to wear Hanukkah socks because I was so far behind with my laundry.  I have simply had no time for laundry, or doing dishes, or getting the garden ready for planting... nothing but work.

I was sitting at my desk in my home office. Staring at the newly budding leaves catching the sun, (as I am now actually), thinking what a shame it was that I was missing this glorious day because of the amount of work I had to get done.  My "To Do" list had given birth to triplets this week, and I hadn't seen my husband since Sunday...and neither of us was away.  As I felt my anxiety level begin to run dangerously high (how much caffeine HAD I actually had??).  Scout, one of my two dogs, came into my office and began to bark at me.  This happens sometimes when he hears his buddy Taylor outside, and he wants to go and play. Or if he hears someone coming up the driveway.  Or when he needs a walk.  So I of course tried to ignore him.   Sometimes that works and he sits under my desk while I work.

Not yesterday.  Scout continued to bark at me until I got up.  I followed him to the front door, but there was nobody there, no other dogs outside.  He led me to the back door, which I opened for him.  And it was obvious what he wanted.  He ran out a few steps, and looked back at me with those puppy dog eyes (literally), tail wagging, and waited.  He wanted me to come outside too.  And right on cue, from somewhere in the house, Bear, my other dog, woke up from his second mid-to late morning nap and tentatively approached the back door.

And out we went.  I couldn't go back and grab my phone or a pile of work.  No picking up the laptop or iPad to maximize the time outside. How would I explain, "I'll be right back," to the dogs?  It was perfect outside.  74 degrees, sunny, quiet, and a few geese to chase off the property.   I sat down in the soft grass and both dogs plopped down right next to me and it was good.   It was better than good.  The anxiety I had felt a few minutes ago started to fade away.  I picked a few weeds from a patch that would soon show off my irises and lilies. I looked over at Scout.  He was rolling around on his back.  I was thinking more clearly now.  And laughing.  And letting myself be okay with not finishing everything.   Bear came back behind me and nuzzled my neck in a very affectionate way.   Our revelry was ended when the UPS guy came and the dogs had to protect me.  But it was great while it lasted.

Some people are not dog people... but those of us who are can relate.

We adopted our first dog, Jerry, in 1995 from the animal shelter, right after Jerry Garcia died. (Actually the shelter named him Romeo, but that would be pretty ridiculous, me yelling out the door, "Romeo, oh Romeo, where are you, Romeo?")  My grandmother was mortified that we gave the dog the name of Jerry, since I had two living uncles with that name, and that would give them both the evil eye (kina hora).  Jerry was a great dog, loving, snuggly, and well-behaved in the house.  Grandma and both uncles outlived him.  He died, at the young age of 11 and we were pretty miserable.

Our Jerry, of blessed memory, gone too soon, like his namesake.

When it was time for a new dog, we had decided not to get such a big dog.  Jerry was over 60 pounds, and in his final days, we had to carry him.  At this point we had moved to a new home which had a fenced in yard, and the three kids were all old enough to help with the dog care, so we considered a puppy.  We had not had a dog in the house for about 2 1/2 years.  Just a cat, Jinx and many goldfish. We made several trips to the animal shelter, but there had been a run on pit bulls, and we didn't feel we were a pit bull family.   Then on one visit we saw a dog named Solomon cowering in his cage.  The workers at the animal shelter tried to dissuade us.  "He's a little nervous."  

Bear, in the snow.  So handsome.

But we liked the looks of him.  He resembled Jerry, but not too much.  He was very big, but at this point, we weren't going to get a puppy and we were really ready for a dog. Solomon was more than just "a little nervous."  During our trial walk he was so afraid that he tried to get away from me when I was holding the leash and pulled me down onto the ground.   He wouldn't let us pet him.  He was anxious to get back into the cage.  He was malnourished, though they said he was now healthy enough to adopt.   Looking back, I don't know why we picked him.  Or did he pick us?

But we did.  And it was rough for all of us.  We renamed him Bear.  He looked like a Bear, at first, anyway, and we hoped a strong name would empower him.  But poor Bear had been badly abused by a previous owner.  He would not leave the crate.  He would not ask to go out.  We would walk him when we knew it was time to go out, but we would have to put the leash on him in the crate and drag him out, or tip the crate to get him out. And he wouldn't eat his food until the middle of the night.  He was completely house trained, and, as we learned, property trained.  He wasn't afraid of typical things like thunder, or the vacuum.  But when I brought out the brush to try to brush him, he yelped when he saw it and ran away.   He never let anyone pet him.  He ran from our presence.   He would walk nicely on the leash, but when he realized you were too close behind him, he'd start to pull away.  He liked other dogs we'd meet in the neighborhood, but could never get too close, because he was petrified of their owners.  Someone had really done something terrible to him.  It was heartbreaking to see such an outstanding dog so mistreated that he cowered when you came near him.  And he weighed in at about 65 lbs, malnourished.

For two years we saw incremental improvements.  Every day when we came home, he'd run FROM the door and hide.  He'd never sleep in anyone's room, only under the dining room table.  (I got rid of the crate, with the hopes he'd come around to joining us in the living room on the expensive bed I bough him.)  He never took a dog treat that was offered to him.  He would not eat table scraps when we did the dishes.  But here and there we saw some changes.  He let me pet him when we were outside once in a while.  And he played like a puppy with my youngest son in a very physical way.   He would come when we called him to go for a walk, and not shy away when I tried to put the leash on him.  Once the leash was on, I could sometimes pet him, even though his ears were back, and his tail was down.  When we walked Bear, he always walked like that, tail down, ears back, face down.  But when we let him run in the back yard, he was magnificent.  Pure muscle and freedom.  We longed to see that life in him at other times.

But Bear had plateaued.  I thought that if we got a puppy, Bear could re-learn how to be a dog.  I realized this could backfire, and our puppy could grow to be an aloof older dog.  But I was tired of a dog that was just fed and walked and taken to the vet once a year.  I needed dog love and so did the rest of the family.


So, we headed back to the shelter. This time there were some puppies!  Adorable puppies! A whole litter had been delivered.  To our delight, each as soft, and cute and fluffy and as the next.  We picked the quietest one (so we thought) and set up the crate and puppy-proofed out house. Scout came home the next day.

I know that every parent and every dog owner says this, but there has never been a puppy as cute as Scout. And I will never get another dog as a puppy again.  6 pairs of shoes, a laptop charger, a cellphone, 3 plants, countless magazines and newspapers, pillows and blankets not to mention all the carpets and rugs he has and continues to destroy... but this little border collie is the love of our lives, and has done exactly what we had hoped for Bear.

Puppy Scout. Awwwwww.

I come home to both of their faces in the front window and dog hugs at the door each day.  Bear had also never barked before Scout.  He does now.  Bear is still more nervous and shy with humans, but it's not nearly to the point of him needing to bolt. And when he's outside, he's almost unrecognizable as the dog we brought home from the shelter 8 years ago. He still only eats his food when we go to sleep.  But he takes dog treats from my hand, and gladly will eat food scraps when we clean up.  He lets me pet him and brush him.  And when he hears that Scout is getting a bit of attention, he is now not far behind, making sure he's not missing something.  He walks with his head up, ears perked, and tail lifted and wagging.  Bear and Scout get frisky sometimes and have to be sent outside to play.  They hate when one is gone (usually to the vet) without the other.  They love it when any of the kids come home, especially our youngest son, who plays with them and takes them on the longest walks whenever he comes home.

Actually, Scout has become much more of a challenge now, exhibiting separation anxiety when we are gone for too long, requiring me to hire someone to "visit" him, and occasionally needing sedation. He follows me around when I am home, and is sitting on my feet as I type this declaration of love to my dogs.  With no children at home I sometimes wonder if my husband and I are turning into those people others make fun of, buying all kinds of pet treats and pet toys, and planning their work schedules around  dog walks.   (I spend time on the pet aisle at Shop-rite the way I used to go down the cereal aisle when the kids were little, finding something special that would make them smile.  But don't worry, I'm still not dressing the dogs up in little Yankees sweatshirts.)

I think I'll finish my tribute to my dogs now and go and give them some human attention.  I don't want them to get too lonely.

Scout and Bear, waiting for us to finish eating dinner.

Scout, asleep on someone's bed, as usual.

Can someone give him the remote, please?

Old Friends

Bear, relaxed at last.

By the way, all our pets were adopted from the Ramapo Bergen Animal shelter.  Maybe your next best friend is waiting for you there?

Post script:  Bear died yesterday, October 19, 2017.  He was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer about three weeks ago, and hung around so we could say our goodbyes and have some time to process this news.  By our figuring, he was about 13.  At the end, he was a great, loyal, calm, soulful dog.  He never misbehaved.  We will miss him always.  

Here's a picture of him playing just a year ago in the yard with Jacob and Scout.

To Remember

I helped Agnes into my car.  She's petit, under 5 feet tall, and as usual when I drive her, I make sure she's buckled up like I would a child, though she's 84 years old.  After all she has been through, I feel like I am driving the most precious cargo when she's with me.

As we drive, we notice the beautiful buds and flowering trees everywhere we look.  It's a cool morning, so the windows stay closed, but it's a glorious-looking Spring day.  There's pink, yellow, soft green, and purple on the tree-lined streets of the towns we drive through.

"Early Spring holds so much promise," I say, "I just love it."
"Yes," agrees Agnes.  "Especially after the tough winter we just had."
"I guess yours was particularly tough," I add.

We are both quiet.  Agnes lost her beloved husband David just a month ago.

A few minutes later she says, "My mother always said, 'Wear clean underwear, because you never know what might happen.  You might get in an accident.'"
That seems a little out of the blue, and I wonder if she's commenting on my driving, or just thinking about her mother and the presentation she's about to give in about a half an hour.
"My mother always said that too!  I am just now thinking maybe it's a metaphor for always being ready, and not really about underwear?"
"You mean like keeping your paperwork in order and keeping a clean house?" says Agnes.
"Oh, gosh, I hope not!" I laugh, thinking about my office and my desk in particular.  "I was more thinking about making sure your relationships are resolved with people, you know, just in case.  I mean, I never thought about it until just this minute, but maybe clean underwear is a metaphor for a clean slate."
Agnes seems to like that, and we go back and forth a bit on this topic.

When we arrive at the school, she practically bounds out of my car, and grabs her bag from my backseat, and moves so quickly from the parking lot to the door that I have to run a little to catch up after collecting my laptop and bag so I can get the door for her.  We are at a Jewish high school program, so Agnes can tell her story to the students.  It is Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.

For the past six weeks, I have been meeting with her, at her house, and looking at her photos, and working with her to encapsulate her story of survival into a half-hour speech accompanied by a power point presentation.

Agnes and I pose for a selfie.  Probably her first.

Good thing it was a small lectern!

At first, she rambles a little bit, telling the students about the rise of anti-Semitism, Hitler, Auschwitz and getting very far removed from her own personal story.  I quietly move to the front row and whisper that they are here to hear about her story, her personal story of survival.  She turns around to see the slide on the screen, and is transported back to her own childhood. It is a story so amazing and compelling, I am going to share it with you.

Agnes was born in 1930.  She led a very happy life, although she doesn't remember a time when the rules weren't at least little different for Jews than they were for Gentiles in Budapest, Hungary.  Both her parents worked, and they were very comfortable.

She attended at school for girls until the age of 14 (1944) when the Nazis came into Hungary. At that time, Jews were forced to move from their homes into the Budapest ghetto.  Agnes was an only child, and in an act of defiance, which she says was very unlike her, when her parents were getting ready to go to the ghetto, she refused to go with them.  Agnes hid in the basement of her house, behind a curtain next to the toilet, for hours, while the Nazis made a clean sweep of the house and the neighborhood.  What she remembers is that she knew it was wrong to place so many Jews in such a small, confined area.  She was right.  It turned out that there were mines under the ghetto that were never detonated.

After several hours, Agnes emerged.  It was dark. She removed the yellow star from her clothing, and made a decision to take shelter with her mother's good friend Elizabeth.  Elizabeth was a Jew, but married to a non-Jew.  She lived across the city, in the very elite part of town.  Agnes was sure that Elizabeth would hide her in her giant home and she would be safe and warm.  Unfortunately, that was not the case.  Elizabeth gave her 20 crowns, and said that the war would soon be over, and sent this poor, freezing, Jewish girl back out into the cold rainy night.

Agnes made her way back across the river toward the neighborhood she knew.  As she walked the dangerous streets, an air raid (were they Americans trying to bomb a German military stronghold?) made her find shelter wherever she could.  The rain had turned to snow.

Finally, Agnes found shelter at a little house with a garden, and an awning to protect her a bit from the elements.  She covered herself with a newspaper and used her schoolbooks as a pillow.  Completely exhausted, she fell asleep.

Agnes awoke to a stranger staring at her.  He was an older fellow, and she somehow knew it would be okay to tell him the truth.   She told him her parents were taken to the ghetto.  He asked if she was a Jew, and made her prove it by reciting the Shema. (This is the prayer every Jewish child learns first, and states that God is one.)  Although Agnes' family had never been religious, she did get Jewish studies once a week at her school, and she knew the Shema by heart.  The man was a Jewish pharmacist, whose business was forced closed.  He gave Agnes some bread, and then asked her to do something for him.  He drew a map of where his pharmacy was located, and gave her the key to the door.  He gave her money for the trolley, and told her he needed her to bring back nitroglycerin pills for his heart.  Not thinking of the dangers of such a trip, Agnes went to the pharmacy and found the medicine.  It was on the trolley back that she met the one person who is most likely responsible for saving her life.

Agnes sat next to a man who was reading a theatrical publication.  She says that from this, she intuitively knew he must not be a Nazi.  She noticed he had a tiny flag of Sweden on his lapel.  In German, she introduced herself, and he said his name was Raoul.  She asked if he was from Sweden, and he confirmed he was, and she somehow knew he was safe, and she spoke quickly, quietly and freely to him.  She explained that her parents were taken to the ghetto, and that she was alone and had nowhere to go.  He asked her age.
"14 years old," she told him. He wrote an address on a piece of paper, and handed it to her.  

Raoul Wallenberg, famous for saving thousands of Jews, from his passport photo.

"Go to this address, tell them you are an experienced baby nurse and you are 16."
Raoul Wallenberg got off the Trolley at the next exit, but in those 15 minutes, Agnes' fate was changed.  

Agnes brought the pharmacist his nitroglycerin, and he rewarded her with 10 more Hungarian crowns.  She took the money to a shop and brought a small amount of food.  As a young child, not knowing what to do to prepare for what may be ahead, she bought a 5 gallon jar of apricot preserves as well, and the shopkeeper gave her a shopping basket on wheels to drag it through the streets.

Agnes found the address given to her by the stranger on the trolley.  It was a former gymnasium, now transformed into a shelter for children orphaned by the war.  Agnes did as she was told by Raoul, and told the director that she was an experienced baby nurse.  And it turned out she was a natural with the children and worked hard tending to them until the Russian occupation of Hungary in January of 1945.  She says that the apricot jam worked wonders with the children, as it was the only sweet thing they had, and it helped quiet down the little ones as well. 

Agnes' parents did survive the ghetto, but when she found them after the ghetto was liquidated, she barely recognized them.  They tried to move back to their home, but it had been taken over by fascists who refused to leave.  The family was allowed to live in the basement of their own house.  At this time, Agnes, now 15 felt that she was a parent to her parents.  She joined a Zionist organization, and made plans to emigrate to Israel.

Agnes' story of survival continues, as she managed to get to France with the other Zionist teens, again leaving her parents behind, and boarding the Zionist ship Latrun.  With the Haifa coast IN VIEW... it was bombed by British forces and everyone on board was forced to board another ship and sent back to DP camps in Cyprus for a year. 

Fishing Boat Latrun, as it was sinking, due to grenades in the hull.

But Agnes did make it to Israel where she lived for many years, both on Kibbutz Matzubah (coincidentally where my husband volunteered many years later), and in Tel Aviv.  Her parents joined her in Israel, and later, when she got married, she and her husband David moved to the United States.

Agnes is much more than a Holocaust survivor.  She is an artist, a botanist, herbalist and a naturalist.  Just yesterday, she gave me a homemade cream for my eyes, which were looking a little puffy, in her opinion.  She concocts elixirs from natural ingredients that cure all sorts of aches and pains.  Agnes is an expert gardener and horticulturist.  And although English is not her native language, she's an excellent writer as well.  

Agnes' Hebrew name is Bracha, which means blessing, and that is what she is.
I'm proud to call her my friend.  
And I'm proud to help keep her story alive.

"I wanted the students to know that you shouldn't follow the crowd, especially if you know it's wrong.  I hope they heard that message."

Agnes, with one of her scultures, at an exhibition of her work.

April 27, 2014

Post Script... while I was finishing up this piece, Agnes called me. She wanted to know if I was caught up on my sleep, and we rehashed how well things went yesterday.  How surprised she will be when she finds out I ordered a bright blue hydrangea to be delivered tomorrow as a thank you.  She asked if she was interrupting my work, and I told her honestly I was writing about her.  She laughed and said that was good, now we can remember.

If it's Purim, it Must Be Passover

About fifteen seconds after someone has given me a hamentaschen to celebrate the holiday of Purim, I am preparing for the THE BIG ONE... Passover. All those crumbs falling from that cookie shaped like Haman's hat (or pocket, or ear) are just "hametz to be" ready to be swept away in a matter of weeks.  Or Friday when the cleaning ladies come.  But that's not the point.

I have written about Passover before, the aftermath that is...  here is part of an article I wrote in 2010, edited to make it relevant for today, and also to take out the Hebrew fonts that don't work well with the Blogger site.  Enjoy, but don't get uptight, we still have a few weeks to go.

(Note: when I underline the letter H, read it gutturally, like a chhcchhcchh sound.  Very good. Please wipe off the screen and continue.)

PESAH

PASSOVER

aka

Hag He'Aviv -- Holiday of Spring

Hag HaMatzot -- Holiday of Matzot

Z'man Heiruteinu -- The time of our Freedom

Hag He'Aviv- The Holiday of Spring

Although, after the winter we've been having it's hard to imagine it, hopefully by April 14, the night of the first Seder, we will be noticing many signs of spring.  We will appreciate it all the more, I'm sure, to see those bulbs bursting out of the grey ground, and the tiny buds on the trees.   But as glorious as Spring will be, and as much hope as it imbues, it really doesn't capture the meaning or feeling of Passover.  We do much more on this day than celebrate Spring.

Hag HaMatzot - The Holiday of Matzot (plural of Matzah)

This explains quite a bit more, I suppose...as it's the only holiday where we are "commanded" to eat matzah. In fact, if you are asked by a total stranger when you are sitting in the mall  why you are eating that crumbly square cracker with your tuna (falling all over the place) I hope that you, like me, will launch into a 20 minute retelling of the exodus from Egypt.  Yes, the very taste of this food reminds us of the holiday and the memories that go with it.

Z'man Heirutainu -- The Time of Our Freedom 

This begins to tell the Passover story by it's very name.  This is the holiday where we take the time to discuss, teach and retell the story of how our people left Egyptian slavery, crossed the Red Sea, and became a free people.  We take time at our seder and hopefully in the weeks preceding and the the weeks following as well, to appreciate our own freedom that there are others who are not free. 

The challenge, of course, to make the Passover holiday, and especially the Seder, the festive meal that kicks off the seven or eight day observance, relevant and meaningful to all.  How do you teach slavery to your family and friends, when none of you, thankfully, have know slavery? Or maybe we have.  

How do you express the joys of freedom to a table of people who take it for granted.  Or who don't think they are free yet?

Spoiler Alert... If you are coming to my seder stop reading.

At my Seder (the holiday meal) this year, I will be asking people to share something that makes them either feel they are free or feel they are enslaved.  (Or, of course they can pass.)  Because even though we do not have obvious shackles that we can see, some of us may feel that way:  a job that is strangling, a project that can't get done.  Others may feel free and can share that. A new set of car keys, or a paint brush. Wearing sandals after a long winter. 

I'll get some flack for this assignment... my dad has already said "that's fine, but I'll just bring the wine," but even if people don't decide to share, they will at least have thought about it before they come to the table.  And I think that's the whole point, really.

The goal of the seder is to tell the story, though most Haggadot (the books we read from at the seder) do not really tell the story very well.   This year, my seder will focus around the the passage called Avadim Hayinu, We Were Slaves. 

This is the English Translation:

We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, and God the Eternal brought us out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.  And if the Holy One, Blessed is God, had not taken our ancestors out of Egypt, then we, and our children, and our children's children, would still be slaves in Egypt.  So, even if all of us were wise, all of us understanding, all of us knowing Torah, it is still a mitzvah for us to discuss to departure from Egypt. And anyone who tell the story of the Exodus from Egyptian slavery is to be praised.

Even in the mall.

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.