The First (and only) Noel

A True Story.

I have never had Christmas envy.  

Growing up in a Jewish home, we celebrated all the Jewish and American holidays in full style.  We have enjoyed each at its given time, with the proper full table and decorations.  As a little girl, I never dreamed of waking up to see what Santa might have left me, I knew that was for the other kids.  I was happy with my eight nights of Hanukkah, my gelt and dreidels and latkes and knowing I was that anomaly at school who didn't blend in.  

But... one year... things were different.

It was 1969.  That year, my family had moved from Newton Centre, Massachusetts to Cherry Hill, NJ. Shortly after we moved in, we watched with amazement as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. I went from not understanding Red Sox fever to not understanding Mets fever.  (AGAIN with the kids and their transistor radios!)

I was in 4th grade, and my little brother Geoffrey was in 1st. Of COURSE we walked to school, and it was quite a hike.  As we walked along, we met up with our neighbors and friends.  We made friends quickly and summer turned to fall turned to winter.

I remember one very cold and slightly snowy morning, and our usual friends were sparse.  As we approached the "major" intersection where the crossing guard usually protected us from the dozen or so suburban cars, who slowly made their way toward the school, we saw she was not there.  Being the big sister, I took my little brother by the hand when the light turned green.  We boldly crossed, me feeling proud and accomplished.  When we arrived, unscathed at the school, we found, to our delight, it was a snow day!  Our small group turned around and trudged back home, through the inch and a half of accumulated snow, most likely to my mother's chagrin. 

As was the norm back then, the school was decorated beautifully. As you walked into the lobby, there was a huge Christmas tree, and it made the foyer smell great.  The tree had ornaments and lights, and back in those days, that metallic tinsel that came in single shreds. The lobby had other decorations as did every hallway and classroom.  The school was positively festooned with Christmas decorations. 

Was there the obligatory menorah in the lobby?  I doubt it.  Did one or two teachers hang up some Hanukkah decorations?  Maybe. Was there a Kwanzaa candelabra up?  There wasn't even Kwanzaa yet. I don't know what other parents told their children, but I just knew it wasn't my holiday.  I knew when I got home there would be my holiday waiting for me... and it was okay. 

And then, it was time for Christmas vacation.  The school did what they had always done, they entered every child's name into the raffle to see who would get to bring the giant Christmas tree home.  They did not ask who wanted to enter.  They did not consider who might not want a tree, or who might already have one.  And little Juliet Cantor, one of a handful of Jewish children in the school won that Christmas tree.

I didn't think for a second to argue with the principal of the school, or turn down this tree.  At 9 years old, I had not yet even considered standing up to authority, and it was true, we didn't have one...

So.

There I was. 

At 3:30 on a snowy afternoon at the beginning of Christmas break with a giant naked pine tree. 

To my surprise (and probably dismay) winning the Christmas tree did not mean winning any of the lights, ornaments or that pretty tinsel.  The custodians had made quick work of that while we were in our last classes of the afternoon.

I rounded up my friends, which included my boyfriend Andy and his best friend Paul (both Jewish) and little Geoffrey (we let him carry the top of the tree, since he was only 6).  And the four of us schlepped

this thing all the way home. 

As a parent... I can't imagine what I would do if any of my kids EVER came home with a Christmas tree.  But I can tell you what mine did. 

They let me keep it.

My dad configured some kind of stand for it in our den.  And I was allowed to make decorations for it... origami and snowflakes... and we admired it.  Since we didn't know about watering it, it dried out nicely, dropping its needles all over the place.  My cousin happened to be visiting and he taught me to draw a perfect 5-point star and we colored them in, punched holes, used Mom's yarn to make loops, and hung them up on the tree. Then we taught Geoffrey how to draw Stars of David, as I had just learned in Hebrew school, and did the same with them.  We did not see the irony.  

When Christmas came, there were no presents under that tree.  We didn't hang stockings with care, or leave cookies for Santa.  But for one year, we had that intoxicating scent of pine wafting through the house.  After that, my dad took it outside, chopped it up, and let it dry, and we used it for firewood.  It smelled wonderful in the fireplace.

It's funny to think of it now.  A Christmas tree in our house.  My parents acting like it's no big thing.  And because they acted that way, it wasn't. (Although I did ask if we could buy tinsel and lights, and they said no.) 

When I reminded them of this story, family lore at this point, I asked them if there were photos I could use to enhance the blog. They both looked, but, not surprisingly, there were no photos to be found.

Since that time, we've always enjoyed Christmas as guests, celebrating with others. Enjoying their traditions, foods, stories, and Christmas trees.  And definitely the music.   But that one year was the beginning and end of Noel in our house.

The author, as artistically  "elfed" by @pawhite. 

To read more of my Jewish blogs about Christmas, click on these links:

http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2013/12/why-theres-plaster-jesus-in-my-basement.html



http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2011/12/in-memory-of-friend-at-christmas.html

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.)

Hashtag GD 50

Did you hear that?

Yes, it's a collective sigh of relief.  Deadheads woke up on Monday, July 6 and the world seemed to still be turning on its axis even though presumably we said "fare thee well" to the boys the night before in a dramatic swan-song stroll down memory lane which was either seven months or 50 years in the making.

This guitar was later auctioned off to benefit the Rex Foundation.

Even so, still today, over two weeks later people are still posting a few more pictures on Instagram. Still tweeting out a few more clever song lyrics will make us all "favorite" it and retweet it to our own favorite Deadheads.  Facebook is still going strong with people's videos, and newspaper articles, bios, set lists, and a few late concert reviews.  Everyday is hashtag throw back whatever... and I have a feeling we haven't seen the end of it.  Being a Deadhead has become so mainstream, even the police cars in the San Francisco Bay Area have little stealies on them.

Yes, pretty mainstream, I'd say.

How were the shows?

This is not a review of the concerts, you can get that anywhere. I thought that all five were great.  The saga of my getting, or more precisely, not getting tickets aside*, the California scene was great, and I wish I could have enjoyed the Chicago scene as well, but it was not in the cards for me. If they had played another weekend in New York (or NJ) I believe they could have sold that out too. But frankly I'm not sure I could have handled the drama.  I read in one of the reviews that for many Deadheads, these will be their last stadium shows.  That is certainly true for me**.  The profound number of people was just staggering. All those humans!  Spending that much on parking, food, and beverages. $13 for undrinkable beer!!! Eternal lines at the concession stands and bathrooms.  My son said "Mom, stadium shows are a young man's game," as he left me in section 413 and deftly made his way almost to the floor for the entirety of Sunday's Santa Clara show.  So, it is "Fare Thee Well" to one thing... and that is humongous stadium shows and me ever touching a Bud Lite again!

  

But getting back to the shows themselves... I loved them all.   They were interesting... they were eclectic...mistakes were made and corrected... they were perfect in their imperfection.  The first show in California featured obscure rarities that only true Deadheads would grok.   July 3rds show in Chicago was all original Grateful Dead songs (no covers).  Only two repeats in the entire five nights (Cumberland Blues and Truckin')!!  The set lists were artfully created and flowed together***.  The drum solos boomed and shook like old times.  Fireworks lit up the sky and even the Empire State Building joined the fun.   We sang along and we laughed and cried.  We missed Jerry and yet we felt him there.  We hugged our friends and we really did stop strangers just to shake their hands.  Maybe we hugged them too.

And what about Jerry?

Unbelievably, Jerry has been gone 20 years next month, and it's obvious that the music hasn't stopped and never will. To those who continue to say things like, "well he doesn't play it like Jerry," or "he just doesn't sound like Jerry," I say once and for all THAT'S RIGHT! And no one ever will.  If you want to hear Jerry, play one of the thousands of hours of unbelievable musical gifts he left us.  If you want to hear some guys who come pretty close to playing and sounding just like Jerry, check out John Kadlecik or Jeff Mattson.  But it's really time to quit whining.  Nothing's gonna bring him back.

An impromptu tribute to the man we were missing.
Sunday's show included a moment of silence, and they showed photos of all those members of the band and crew who had died.  It was very touching.

And what about Trey?
From the first announcements until the last bow, that grinning ginger has been in the Deadhead limelight.   Any writer who had the audacity to call him "the new Jerry" or say he "took Jerry's place" is a piker who didn't do his homework. But Trey's guitar playing was top notch, and his voice is his own.  And did he look like he was having fun or what???  I still will not become a Phish fan anytime soon, but I was happy with the sound, the vibe and the energy that I saw and heard onstage.

I found this on Instagram and it cracked me up!

Peter Shapiro: God or Grinch
Peter Shapiro, the impresario of  my favorite local music venue, The Capitol Theatre, and it's super cool little brother, Garcia's, has become the modern day Bill Graham.  A Deadhead who made this happen and tried to do the right thing along the way.   A lot of people don't like him, and I've read some downright ugly things about him, but hey, he pulled off the whole shindig, and has been bringing us amazing shows.  And like him or don't, but the truth is it's never okay to slander someone, or use the anti-Semitic language I have read when referring to him or to anyone.  I can't consider people who hide behind names like Kosmyk Charl-E and spew hate the true Deadheads. 


So now what?

Is the music really going to stop now? Don't be silly. As of this moment I have tickets in hand (well, not in hand, or how would I be typing?) to see Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, and Billy Kreutzmann, all before the end of the year!  Does that sound like #faretheewell???  It's news to basically NO ONE that Bob Weir is planning a tour with John Mayer, Mickey and Billy.  There's a renewed interest in the Grateful Dead that we haven't seen in years.  (I'm not even sure I like it, to be honest!)  There are rumors of another GD tour! (Again, see **)  In the meantime if you are in the mood for some good old Grateful Dead music and you want it live and local, check out this website http://gratefuldeadtributebands.com/.  You can support local talent and get nice and close to the stage too!

My relationship with the Grateful Dead has had a lot of ups and downs over the last seven months. I'm ready to ease back in to my comfortable routine of normal obsession now and focus on the rest of my life with balance and clarity.  The music of the Grateful Dead will continue to move and inspire me, and I will continue to pay ridiculous prices to see "the Core Four" play as long as they continue to play, either apart, or, if we are so lucky, together.  


I'll leave you with this gorgeous gem.  You may have seen it already, but enjoy it again.  Ripple video - Playing for Change

My son and me, right after we found our seats in Levi's stadium, about an hour pre-show.

Our mini-tailgate in one of the massive lots in Santa Clara.

*You can read about that in this blog.
**Unless they "surprise us" and announce more shows... check out this article!
*** Okay, so you know what? I bet  we all have our personal comments about the set lists.  I myself may have said "It's too soon for Standing on the Moon.  And BOB should be singing it!" But let's keep it positive, eh folks?

All About a Barbie

I had the unfortunate experience to find myself in the mall a few weeks ago on my one precious afternoon off.  Apparently, after the age of 45, the punishment for myopia is either wearing reading glasses over your contact lenses, or wearing complicated eyeglasses.  If you don’t know what I am talking about, take a walk to the closest CVS and try on a pair of readers and it will all become very clear.

Anyway, my complicated glasses needed to be adjusted before the Seder, as they were so scratched, I literally could not see the words in the Hagaddah.  I was seated next to a bespectacled mother and her adorable son, who was clutching a bag from the Disney Store. He was begging her to play with his new Anna doll. 

In a hushed voice she suggested, “How about Olaf instead?”

“No, Mommy.  I want to play with Anna!”

“I told you, not until we are in the car.”

“But Mommy, why can I play with Olaf here and not with Anna?”

Now, the little boy is not having a fit, he’s just asking, but the mother is getting that panicky look on her face.  She glances at me, and shoots me that “I’m so sorry” look, and I can see she’s mortified.  I try to come up with an “I understand look,” but I’m not sure she sees me; she’s trying so hard to diffuse her “situation.”  The situation of her little boy wanting to play with a doll. 

When someone finally comes out to wait on us at the glasses repair counter, I offer to let them go ahead of me, but mom decides to take her son out of the store rather than have a scene.

As I wait while they work their magic (aka change the lenses and charge me accordingly)… I think about the playthings I had for my own children. 

Before we even had children, my husband and I had a lot of discussions about how to be as parents.  One of the biggies was no toy weapons in the house. I didn't get much push-back from my husband, though growing up, he and his brother had a bee-bee gun.  He also had some pretty terrible stories about that gun (and bee-bees in the ears) so he was fine with that.  (He had a much harder time with the “let’s go with only cloth diapers” conversation.)

And then we had our first baby.  David was beautiful, perfect little boy.  We filled his room with toys.  No weapons ever came into the house.  Ah, see how easy that is?  Our little house was filled with art toys and building toys and musical instruments. Stuffed animals and train sets.  Trucks and dinosaurs. 

When we learned that I was pregnant again, we got little David a Cabbage Patch doll so he could attend a “big brother” class, and there he learned about changing diapers, feeding with a bottle, and giving babies a bath.  When the class was over, he got a sticker that said he was a prepared big brother, and he barely played with the doll again.

When David was 3 ½ along came his sister, Emily.  He was doting and loving.  None of the typical jealousy that you hear about.  He “read” to her from his favorite books (which he had memorized) and helped pick out what she should wear.   As Emily grew, we stood by our “no weapons” rule with ease.  She was more into the art kits and the stuffed animals, and David, though not the greatest sharer, was always happy to play with her.

One day after a playdate with David’s two best friends, twin girls from pre-school, he came home and asked if I’d buy him a Barbie doll. I was a bit taken aback, and let it go.  I had never been allowed to have a Barbie, I am not into the whole Barbie thing as an adult.  I just don’t think it is a good image for women.  AND let’s face it,  David is a boy.  A few weeks later, David who is only about 4 now, tries a different angle with me.  He suggests that Emily (6 months old) might like a Barbie, because little girls like that.

The next time he has his playdate at the twins’ house, I go and hang out with their mom, who is also nursing a new baby.  We smile as the three kids are playing dress-up together.  And then they are playing Barbie dolls.  For Hanukkah, David’s babysitter asks if she can get him a Barbie, he wants one so much.  I say okay, but get a Ken too.   He is thrilled.  I even make her some clothes on my sewing machine.   Ken’s hands get chewed up by the dog, having been left lying on the floor.

Poor Ken.

Three and a half years later, and we welcome Samuel.  Born on Shavuot, and a gift to our family.  He’s our wild child from day one.  This little guy starts climbing out of his crib and running by 9 months. When David meticulously builds the Brio Train into a majestic web of intertwined tracks, and Emily builds the town center around the veterinary clinic, Sam bull-dozes it with a truck in each hand.  When David builds the marble machine to perfection and Emily times the red marble against the blue one, Sam knocks the whole thing down with the leg of the teddy bear she has just had me sew, and has put a “cast” on.   Sticker books are taken apart, and Sam is covered with Emily’s animal stickers.  David’s school projects are kept up on the mantle of the fire place or on his top bunk bed.  Child-proof gates at the stairs are a joke, more of a barrier for our poor dog than a deterrent for Sam.

But the kicker?  Everything… EVERYTHING has become a weapon.  The snorkel from last summer is a sword.  The hammer from the little workshop is a, well I don’t even know what, but it went everywhere with him.  Every tree branch is a gun or knife.   He gravitated to the Lego sets that had the pirates, or the knights.  And somehow the videos that were once benign Disney videos to the other two suddenly suggest violence to Sam.  He wore a cape every day.  (I had to send him to daycare with a dishtowel tucked in to the back of his shirt or he wouldn't get in the car.)

And then it happened.  My mother-in-law sent Sam, a cowboy gun and holster for his 3^rd birthday.  After that I said yes when my husband wanted to get the costume with the plastic sword and I tried to hide the gun. When Sam played, he put on armor.  Sometimes he got others to join in. Sometimes he just pretended by himself for hours.  As he got older he pretended with little figures.  They’d work out their battles.  They’d fight.  Sometimes little guys would die.  Then they’d get back up again and fight some more. I was more than a little worried about this streak in him, as I had never seen it in my other two children.

Do they even make these anymore??

And we suddenly we had weapons in the house. And more than that.  We had the Lego Pirate Ship. We had the Playmobile soldiers fort.  The Mystic Knights.  Zorro. We had costumes. Battle ships. Videos. 

So what happened to these two little boys and their sister?

Turns out, David is gay.  But that Barbie doll didn’t make him gay.  And letting him play the way he needed to play with no judgement on him undoubtedly allowed him to feel safe, at least at home.  Even at that young age, he identified that it was a “girl’s toy” but he liked it.   He is a teacher, and is deeply dedicated to his work.  His students love him and he makes a difference every day.

Sam is a gentle, peaceful soul. In fact he is a volunteer for Ultimate Peace, a Frisbee Camp in Israel that teaches Israeli Jewish and Palestinian children to work out their differences on the playing field.  Still in college, the only sword is wields is his wit.  He is one of those few people his age that can relate to children, teens, peers and adults. 

And their sister?  Well, Emily did not actually pursue becoming a veterinarian, despite the hints above.  One summer she interned in vet’s office and was so turned off, she changed direction.  She now works for a company that helps people afford solar heating for their homes.  This is her passion, and I kvell to see her thriving in a living that makes the world a better place.

So, did I have to change my direction? Yes. I learned that a child needs to play.  I decided not to put a limit on play, as long as no one was getting hurt.  I may not have quite understood what was happening, but whatever it was, they needed to get out through play.

I also learned that they charge a ridiculous amount for eyeglasses and for the Anna and Olaf dolls. And if your son would rather play with Anna or Elsa, it’s going to be okay.

Let all who are hungry...

Grandma's special plates, the ones I only use for gefilte fish, are already put away.
The seder plate is in the drying rack. 
Silver kiddush cups are upside down on a towel, the sunlight is hitting them just now making them sparkle.
Matzah crumbs are everywhere... as they will be all week.

My house is again way too quiet... this is the way it is now that the kids don't live here.  After the joy of the Seders and having them home, they have gone back to Boston to get back to work. 

As it has happened twice before, one of my three children was not here.  This year, my it was youngest who was not home for Passover, as he was away for his semester abroad.  He actually spent his Seder in Israel, with the same family that hosted me when I was 20, and I loved that.  But of course he was missed.  

I would like to share with you the words he sent to his sister to be read at our Seder table.  

Shalom and Chag Samayach from the holy land.  This is Jacob (Barr), writing while I wait for Yael Betzelel to take to me to her husband's family's Seder near tel aviv.  As it says in the Torah, B'shanah haba'ah b'tel aviv.

Last year at the Seder, Maddie (*point to self*) read us a portion of the New Haggadah edited by Jonathan Safran Foer where he examines the text "Let all who are hungry come and eat," and makes us really consider if we are following this commandment.  Foer  challenges us not to make this another phrase we say because of the holiday, but actually turn it into a reality.  Practically speaking there is no use saying that when you are already sitting down to eat.  Those who are hungry can't hear you.  

I've been reflecting on this since I arrived in Israel (did I mention I'm in Israel?), where I've been coasting on the generosity of friends and strangers for some time now.  I could list many many instances of when Israelis have helped me, fed me, even clothed me.  I went on a four day hike from the Mediterranean to the Kinneret and each night stayed with a different trail angel, a person who lives near the trail and opens his home to travelers.  Sometimes it was planned, sometimes not.  One family invited us in when it was raining, gave us dry socks and shoes to keep, another took us to his kibbutz breakfast, and at our last location a large group of Thai workers at a kibbutz shared their (incredibly spicy and questionably prepared) Thai food with us while they took videos of us eating from across the table.

Did my characteristic pluck and boyish charm help?  Of course.  My unparalleled wit?  No doubt.  But all this aside, I have never felt so welcomed as I have been in the weeks before Pesach. We took a trip to Safed for a shabbat and stayed with the trail angel we stayed with on the hike weeks ago, and before we left he told our group of five that if any of us or any of our friends needed a Seder we were welcome to his and to stay at his house.

I emailed my birthright tour guide from December to ask about small day trips I could take from Tel Aviv and he responded first with an invitation to his Seder and to stay in his house, and second with ideas for trips.  An adult on the Frisbee team I practice with here told the entire team of twenty that if any of us needed a place for the Seder we were invited to his.

The list goes on:  Chabad Rabbis, Taxi drivers, my Israeli friends from camp: All of them ask us not out of courtesy but from a real desire to help us and give us a place to go.  There may be turmoil, political crisis, and absurdly expensive ground beef here, but in some ways the people here really do act like its the promised land.  So b'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalyim, may next year bring us closer to a world where everyone acts with the same genuine care as I've experienced with the people here.   

At a time when I am so caught up in my own work, and then in my preparations for the holiday, I have not been able to stop to be reflective.  I am deeply grateful that my son has.  



The Haggadah he refers to is amazing...  Click here for the link on Amazon.

Gonna Make that Garden Grow

Inch by inch... row by row...

It’s Saturday night at 10:30.  As usual, the night before a Hebrew school night, I’m taking it easy, watching a little tv with my husband before an early bedtime so I can get up at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning (on the only day of the week when I have to).

I say we’re watching tv, but the truth is, he is.  I’m actually on my laptop, furiously scrolling through iTunes, and my humongous library, using key words like “tree," “planting,” “garden,” and so on.  Tomorrow is our first Bagels & Blox program and the theme is Tu B’Shevat, the Jewish holiday of the trees.  I want some background music for our planting activity. 

(Click here to listen to my one of my favorites on the playlist!)

This program has been in the works since I was hired last June.  It’s designed to be an inclusive parent (or grandparent) and child program that introduces your young one to Judaism in a joyful, musical, movement-filled way.  I will co-lead this precious program with the Rabbi and the plan is that we'll work together, building on each other’s’ strengths, engaging both parents and children.  We also hope to build a community for the parents, grow our school, and by extension grow the two synagogues that feed into our school.  But that’s looking too far ahead.  Right now I just want to put together a seamless 45 minutes program for the four children and their parents who signed up for our first session.

In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize that two of our four children have already done the planting activity, when they attended the Tu B’Shevat Seder last Sunday with their older siblings.  Somehow in my half sleep, my brain creates an alternate idea, that would not require any shopping at 7:00 am on a Sunday.  I fall back to sleep, dreaming of juice boxes and alef-bet songs.

Finally the moment is here.  I get to the synagogue early and set everything up.  The children arrive, and three of them are waiting, not very patiently, in the lobby. Little Billy is 2  ½ and he’s used to being here.  He’s a barrel of energy, with white blond curls, and unlikely to stay in one place for more than a few seconds.  He’s all smiles, as usual this morning.  Looks like it Mommy’s turn to wrangle him today.  And sweet shy Kaitlyn.  She and I are buddies, because her older brother also attends our school. She usually likes to show me her shoes, which are typically quite stylish.  She’s attending with her mom and dad today, and so far, is sticking pretty close to them.  She’s 4 and she loves arts and crafts.  Ali arrives and is excited but nervous.  She’s clutching on to her daddy, but curious to see what’s going on.  She comes in to the social hall to see what’s what.  I show her what I’m setting up.   “When I start that music that means it’s time to start, okay, Ali? Then you can come in.” I get a big smile from her.  She goes into the lobby, and I see her warming up to Kaitlyn and watching Billy zooming around. 

The Rabbi finishes cutting up the bagels and setting up the coffee, and juice boxes and it’s nearly 10:15.  He opens the back door, so Sage’s mom won’t have trouble getting her wheelchair up the ramp.  We both do a final check.  Craft materials are set, toys are near the play mat, music is cued, snacks are ready.  It’s 10:14 am.  I hit play and we say to the families, "come on in!"

We give them name tags and welcome them to the foam mat where we will start and finish our morning.  Sage and her mom arrive just then and join us.  Sage is bigger than the others, and not verbal, but is very present and very happy to be there.  Her mom helps her out of her wheelchair and into the circle. Kaitlyn and Billy barely notice.  Ali sensitively asks her daddy if Sage’s legs got hurt.  “They just don’t work very well,” he answers.  After that it’s all about Tu B’Shevat, being together, and having fun.

We begin with a welcome song, and then do a movement exercise led by the Rabbi.  I hear him say "pretend you are a seed" and a round of giggles follows. They sing another song for Tu B’Shevat and it’s time to move to the art table to make trees.  I put on the music, explain the idea, and each child finds a way to enjoy the project.  

Sage takes great delight in feeling the tissue paper crunch and crumble in her hands. Though she cannot tell me with words, already I can tell she is “calling” me over, and I come right away to be near her.  Ali and her dad carefully make a pattern of colors and name them, they take their time, meticulously gluing the tissue paper buds to the branches.  Billy and I break sticks for the others, I show him how to hold his hands close together to break the wider twigs, and he feels super strong; meanwhile Billy’s mom does the project in a zen-like way. And Kaitlyn becomes completely absorbed by the project, so deeply, we have to tear her away when it’s time for bagels.   The Rabbi, who was taking pictures, has stopped to make his own branch and is making a mess with the glue and having a great time with the families.

During snack, the Rabbi and I give each other a look.  Yes.  It’s good.  We are both full of joy.  These are the seeds we are planting now, right now on Tu B’Shevat.  The seeds of joy, love of Judaism, kindness toward others, community.  These children will know their Rabbi and Educator and remember us from sitting on the floor and from glueing tissue paper to a stick, and not just from far away on the bima or (worse) sitting in an office writing programs on a computer.

As our program comes to an end, we teach them Shalom Chaverim.  Peace friends, until we see you again.

L’hitraot!

If you would like to learn more about our B'Yachad program, or our Religious School, located in Pompton Lakes, NJ.  Please check out our website: B'Yachad School.

Fare Thee Well - I Love You More than Words Can Tell

Please click here to get some music going

Let me just start by saying this will be about the Grateful Dead, a band that I, and many others, have been slightly obsessing about. 

And no, not since they made the big Chicago concert announcement in mid-January of 2015... but since whenever it might have been that we were taken gently by hand and helped up on the bus.

Let me continue by saying I will not be ranting about... um... anything.  Not the lineup for the 4th of July shows.  (Go to any Facebook group if you want that.)  Not prices of tickets or the fact that it is IN Chicago itself, or the fact that it's going to cost an arm and a leg to go, get a room, and somehow get tickets for all three nights.  Because they can charge whatever they want and have this thing whereEVER they want and I know I won't miss it.

So what is it?  What's so compelling about the Grateful Dead that we drop everything, go out on school nights, stay in crappy hotels, drive across the country, deplete our bank accounts, and absorb social media like high school sophomores?  Why am I still writing down every song that Phil plays (albeit on my iPhone now) when I know that in less time than it will take me to get home from the Capitol Theatre, it will be posted on at least 2 sites on Facebook, not to mention the great website, Deadheadland.com.   Why do my girlfriend and I giggle like tweens when we spot Bob Weir's bus pull in to the parking lot of the venue he's about to play?  Let's take a little walk down my personal memory lane and see what we can figure out about the greatest band in the land.

Well, would you look at that... Bob Weir's Tour Bus... and isn't that John K. right there?
Yes, yes it is.  We waited for over an hour, but Bobby was taking a well deserved nap in the back, and we never saw him
emerge from the bus.  Asbury Park, NJ   Summer 2014

When I first heard the Grateful Dead, I was in the freshman dorm room of a few friends (one of whom would become my husband) and their goal was to turn me on to the music.  Wisely they chose American Beauty.  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I had heard of the Dead, but I only knew Truckin' and I thought the music belonged only to the stoners who cut classes in high school.  I was all about the Beatles, and the Beach Boys and Billy Joel.  Music you could sing along to!  I loved to go to concerts and had seen quite a few already by age 17.   But here was American Beauty, with it's rich textures and it's harmonies.  And yes, songs you could sing, if no one else was around to shush you. Bring on Workingman's Dead, please.  

Workingman's Dead.  So great.  Kids these days don't listen to albums, they listen to songs.  Actually I do too.  But these early albums are so rich and delicious.
(Later, my mind was to be completely blown by Mars Hotel.  BOOM.  But this blog would go on forever if we started talking about every album and every concert...)

I started buying records like crazy, but my boyfriend assured me that the records were nothing compared to a live show.  I didn't quite get that from the few poor 12th generation audience cassette tapes he had, but I was game to go to a concert, and in September of 1978, we got tickets for my first Grateful Dead concert. Interestingly, I'm the one who got the tickets, for Giants Stadium in NJ, even though we were back at school already, in Boston. (And I'm still the one who gets the tickets, all these years later!)  I'll never forget that night, my boyfriend's cute older brother, and his adorable friend drove down from Maine and picked us up at college.  I felt like the belle of the ball, in my chariot, off on an adventure.   They drove through the night, as we slept in the back seat.  We got to NJ, and I directed us to a diner for breakfast.   In retelling the story recently, someone reminded me that we ran into friends of my parents, who did not know we were coming to town.   The concert was not the OMG experience that I was hoping for, although I did love the people and I remember my boyfriend  bought me a rose from a vendor who was passing through the stadium seats.  I was hooked after that.  

So many concerts since that time.  Hundreds. More probably.  Memorable shows.  Musical elipses where I was transfixed.  Transformed.  Taken to another place altogether.  Elevated spiritually and emotionally.  Songs where the words meant so much that tears came to my eyes, or the music was so strong that I had to move away from my seat to dance in an open space.  Magical moments where words I have heard a thousand times before take on new meanings and become entirely relevant to what I had been going through. 

Then: Cal Expo May 3, 1986

And now(ish): Nateva Festival, Oxford Maine, Summer 2010

And then there is the community.  I may as well say that I do not quite "fit" into every community out there in the world.  But finding the Grateful Dead and the community of their fans was like coming home.  When we meet one another out there in the world, and learn that we love the Dead, it's like we are members of a club and we all know the rules.  I admit that sometimes people forget them, or break them. That's disappointing. But mostly I have found a generous, kind, non-judgmental, open-minded, community in the Grateful Dead fan community and that works for me.  People who don't push in line, and will sell their extra ticket for face value (or less).  People who will hug you the first time they meet you, or buy you a water BEFORE they meet you because you are behind them on the concession line and you picked up and returned the dollar they dropped.   

Will Chicago be the real end of a story that had its beginning in 1965?  Who knows.  It will be the end of something for sure, probably stadium shows for the Dead, and for me.  I do believe the kind souls who go by the name of Deadheads will figure out a way to get themselves there.  Hopefully we will get tickets through mail-order, or through the online sales, and not have to pay inflated prices.  (If I have to pay higher prices than the ticket price you might wind up reading a different type of blog soon!)

But I do know that I am going to go, and bring love and light with me.  I will surround myself with the people I love and listen to the music I love.   I'll think about Jerry Garcia, and miss him, as I do all the time, and I will love and appreciate Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, the "Core Four," as I have for the past 38 years.  I'll love whatever they decide to play, and rejoice in the people they've chosen to play with: Jeff Chimenti, Trey Anastasio and Bruce Hornsby.

"Just dust those dusty strings off one more time..."

Another one from the Cal Expo, May 4, 1986

Yes, this happened. How could I not include it. Dec. 5, 2013

Okay, this show gets my vote for the all time best concert ever. Thanks to DD for finding this. 

Can this really be the end??

Furthur reading on this topic (just click on the links): 
Grateful Seconds  
Grateful Dead For Dummies / Endless Jams
http://www.gratefuldeadguitars.com/

Or try putting Grateful Dead into the search bar for some of my other blog posts about the Grateful Dead. 


And one last thing... who should have been included, in my humble opinion?

Update : I wrote this one week ago.  I mailed in for my tickets on the mail-in date, and now check my mailbox like a crack addict (I guess) because people have started to get what I refer to as the "pink slip," a polite rejection letter from GDTSTOO saying how high the demand is for tickets. For the record, this is the back of my envelope, on top of the album I was drawing on.  For you younger folks, that's a record album, the way we used to listen to music before computers let you magically hear it by just wishing it to play. 

Update March 7, 2015:  It's now been over a month, and I have not received my money orders back, nor have I received what I've come to call "the golden email," that email that so many people received from Grateful Dead Ticket Sales Too saying that their ticket request would be filled. I tried to buy tickets online, and struck out.  So I'm sitting here in limbo.  My confidence that I'd see my fellow fans at the show is starting to waver.  And quite truthfully I feel as thought I've been on a roller coaster ride.  Not a new fun one, but an old one that's uncomfortable (think: Coney Island Cyclone) where the highs are kind of fun, but the twists and turns hurt really bad, and to make matters worse, your best friends, who have always brought you comfort, since 1977, are nowhere to be seen, and the cause of the pain. I have finally reached stepped off the coaster.  I had to.  If I go, I will have a great time, I know.  And if I don't go, I will have a kick-ass party in my back yard, like I sometimes do on July 4 weekend.  I won't go sit in a movie theater and watch what I'm missing.  I won't check my phone every 5 minutes for the Facebook messages and Tweets to see what "final songs" I'm not hearing.  I'll crank that beloved Lewiston show (September 1980) for my guests and try not to sour-grapes it too much. 

You know what they say... If the thunder don't get ya...

Update April 6, 2015:  I received my money order back about 2 weeks ago.  It was too depressing for words.  So I didn't write any.  But it may just be that I will get to go to one of the shows in Chicago.  We shall see.  I have not given up yet.

This hangs in my hallway. The ad from the paper and my rejection letter. 

Final Update:

I didn't make it to Chicago after all. But I got tickets from a good friend and went to the two shows in California. I had a fantastic time. I watched all three Chicago shows on Pay Per View, enjoying the last one at the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, NY with a room full of Deadheads.  

Me: Wow, so many young people are really enjoying this simulcast, don't you think? 

My son: Yea, mom. That's because everyone your age made it to Chicago.

8/28/17 - I have disabled comments on this post.  For some reason I receive about 20 spam comments A DAY - clogging up my inbox - just to this blog post.  I don't know why.  If you have a real comment, then you are a real human and you will figure out how to get it to me some other way. 

In other news, I just saw Bob and Phil play together at Lockin' via a live stream (thank you Pete Shapiro, YouTube and Lockin' Fest) and it was fantastic.