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

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.

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.

Why There's a Plaster Jesus in My Basement, or Another Christmas Blogfrom a Jewish Blogger

Unlike many of my fellow Jews, my Christmas custom is NOT eating Chinese food and going to the movies on Christmas day, although there was a time when I  have done that.  (This Christmas Eve is another story!)

Menorah Christmas Tree= Holiday FAIL

For the past, oh, ten? years we have spent Christmas day driving to Maine.  Not a very festive thing to do, but my father-in-law's birthday is December 26th, and we like to be there to celebrate, and it's really a great day to drive.  No one is on the roads!  This backfired exactly twice when we broke down and, as I say, NO ONE was on the roads. But usually it's smooth sailing and we get up to our igloo away from home in record time.

Some years, like this year, and in years past, we leave for Maine on the 26th,  and attend a wonderful Christmas party with family friends.  We have been going to their party since my brother and I were children, and it's a joy to go now that our own kids are grown. 

But there were years before that when I didn't live around my family, and I had to find other things to do on Christmas. Since I had just come home for Thanksgiving, sometimes I would offer to work over Christmas to let the other people get the time off.

When I lived in San Francisco, I was the case manager a group home for teens who could no longer live at home. We only had six beds, and all six were always filled.  I remember those kids so well, each one has a place in my heart.  Some of them were easy to love, and some of them made themselves a little tougher. Some of them had families who wanted them back, and some of them had families that were so dysfunctional that we could not let them go back, not even for an hour on Christmas. For those kids, we would supervise Christmas or Christmas Eve visits in the living room of our house.  A mysterious donor always send a Christmas tree about a week before, and we would decorate it with a few ancient decorations.  (I learned the word "flocking" at this time.) The kids started to behave better, or worse, depending on what emotions were being drummed up inside.  They usually liked that this was my only Christmas.

We had very strict rules about behavior.  No infractions meant you could go to the store and buy some gifts for your housemates, or family members, if you were still in touch.  But if you had broken rules, you had only on-grounds privileges, and someone else had to do your shopping. The state gave us some money to buy the kids gifts, and some of their parents brought presents, if they knew that a visit was not to be.  We did not have an "angel" or a "sugar daddy." No one thought about these kids as a charity worth a "toy drive" or a "drop off."  They weren't adorable, or pitiful, or glamorous. Just kids who had had it really rough. I was just a kid myself, looking back, just 26.

Ted was violent, but only sometimes.  Other times he was smooth and a ladies man.  He was about 6'1" already, very nice looking, and only 16. He lied as easily at telling the truth. My strongest memory about Ted was the night we caught him drinking and he was about to lose his privileges.  "Ted, you made some bad choices and..." and before I knew it, he had smashed the empty vodka bottle found under his bed and was holding it menacingly in my face.  My heart was racing.  Just at that moment another worker arrived behind him and took the bottle away.  Ted was taken to Juvenile Hall.  I don't know what happened to him.

Shelly had it rough. Her mom simply couldn't handle her. "Take her," she said. She was way more into finding drugs and finding alcohol than finding Shelley after school.  Luckily Shelley found Jesus and the church helped Shelley.  But Shelley never let anyone in again.  Except for me.  Shelley and I are still in touch.

Rosanne was 14 when she arrive at Pathways. She had already had an abortion. Rosanne was the only Jewish kid there when I was there, so I invited her to come to my house to celebrate Hanukkah one night. I knew this was against the rules, but since I was, by now, the manager, I bent the rules when I needed to. She shared her story in the car.  Mom's new husband came to her room every night.  When she told mom about this, Mom slapped her and called her a whore and a liar, and kicked her out on the street.  But Rosanne was pregnant, and she dragged herself to a hospital, who called the state.  After the abortion, she came to us, and we were working on emancipating her when she became 16.

Dwayne was Ted's roommate, and was soft spoken.  He became his true self after Ted left, and we saw a glimmer of joy in his eyes, when he was no longer living in fear of Ted.  He became more and more confident.  His issues were many, stemming from learning disabilities, school anxiety and a single mom who simply gave up on him.  Dwayne had a much older brother who came to visit and brought him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and gave him a sense of family.

Denise.   Denise was black. I was there the day she was dropped off by her white mom. Her mom was clearly drunk, and Denise was clinging to her. It was a heart wrenching scene.  Her mother loudly announced for all to hear that she was fine with Denise's placement at Pathways.  The court appointed social worker tried to bring us all into my office to finish the paper work, but Denise's mother was anxious to leave.  Her school placement was at an all-girls Catholic school, and it seemed to be a good match for her. 

Her roommate was Kim, our oldest resident, and the big sister to other girls.  Kim had been arrested several times for several different small crimes, each of them just seemed to say "Get me out of my house," and finally she got out.  At 17, she was nearly ready to be on her own.  Her grades were good, she had a part time job, and I had just gotten her a checking account.  Our latest mini-battle with Kim was the amount of time she wanted to spend with her boyfriend. 

So it  was Christmas.  It was my third year at Pathways, so I knew the drill.  We started nice and early working to find places for the kids to go, because with troubled families (and with healthy ones) things can always go wrong.  All the kids were in the group home on Christmas Eve Day, so we did our present exchange that day.

By Christmas Eve, a few of the kids had places to go.  Those who were there were treated to a nice dinner, cooked by me (usually the kids took turns cooking as part of the therapy of becoming independent).  We watched a Christmas movie on TV and drank hot cocoa. (I always offered to take the shifts because I was the only Jewish employee.)

I put a few gifts I had bought for the last few kids under the tree.  The only one who had nowhere to go on Christmas Day was Denise.  Once everyone was gone, I broke the news to her.  She was coming with me, and my husband to spend Christmas with us.

This was, of course, against the rules. She didn't have off-ground privileges, and she wasn't supposed to go in the car with me.  And neither of those minor details was going to stop me.  Denise got all dressed up in her nicest clothes, coat and scarf, and we were off.   

I drove her up to my apartment, picked up my husband and we headed into San Francisco.  Looking into my rear view mirror I could see she was bubbling with excitement.

First stop...Chinatown!   Our Christmas dinner was a Chinese feast of dumplings, wonton soup and spareribs!  It was all a first for her, and she loved it.

Then, off to the movies, to see the new Star Trek movie.  She had been to the movies before, but not for a very long time, and she was thrilled.  

We had a great time, and it was a lot of fun to treat Denise to a special day, even if it was not exactly the most traditional Christmas for her.

Then back to the Pathways by 5:30 or so, when the next shift of staff was to arrive and the other kids were arriving back, with their stories of dysfunction, fighting and complaining.  And Denise smiling ear to ear.

After Christmas, we made sure things get back to normal very quickly because it stirs up so much for the kids. But after school one day, Denise came into my office and said she had a surprise for me.  She handed me a wrapped gift, tissue paper, ribbon, the works.  

"Merry Late Christmas, and Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year too. I made you this in art class.  Thanks for the best Christmas I have ever had."

She stood there while I opened it.  It was this plaster Jesus head.  She was bursting with pride.  

I have treasured it and kept it ever since.  When my kids were little I hid it, so they would not be confused.  How do you explain why a Jewish family has a plaster Jesus in the basement?   But there's nothing confusing about helping someone feel loved and celebrate her holiday.  

So, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and I wish you all the love and joy of the season.

Mother's Day

I vacillate between thinking it's a Hallmark holiday, and a really special day.  In fact, just now when I went to dictionary.com to spell check vacillate, right there, in bold type, it said MOTHER = HERO.  When I clicked on the banner, it showed Rosie the Riveter, with her polka dot shmata on, sleeve rolled up, feminine fist in my face, with the words, "Mother: The Toughest Job Description."*  Think about that ... it doesn't even make that much sense... but don't mess with us anyhow, you wimps. 

Even if you aren't a mom, you have or had a mom.  Most of us can dredge up some sentimentality for our moms on this day, even if their relationships weren't the best.  I'm lucky.  I am a mother, I have known two of my great-grandmothers, both of my grandmothers, and I have a great relationship with my mom, and my mother-in-law.  Did I say I am lucky?  I am extremely blessed. 

I must say though, that the card companies really rake it in... and there were times where I spent the better part, wait, no, the worst part of an hour choosing the right card for the Grandmothers, and the mothers from each of the kids and one from my husband and me... usually with a whiny child in a stroller and another falling apart in the aisle.  A funny one.  A sentimental one.  Too mushy?  Too funny? Is this what I really want to say?  Would my husband like this? What am I thinking...he'll sign whatever I put in front of him.  I'd leave with my $79 worth of cards with pink, peach, and purple envelopes, usually to get home find that at least two didn't fit.  Then to get everyone to sign them and mail them on time.  

My Mom, at 12

Now the great-grandmothers are gone.  The kids do not live here anymore.  I've spent more time on this blog than I will in the card store. 

I'm long past the construction paper cards and the wooden-bead necklaces and paper crowns.   I hope the kids are picking out their own cards... and I just realized how much I miss that time, and my grandmothers too. They'd call the minute they got our cards, exclaiming they were even better than last year, the flowers, even more beautiful. I would gladly trade that miserable hour of standing in the Gold Crown store for a little more time with "Little Grandma" and "Gigi."  Or to hold my hand over my son's as he tried to spell his name in cursive to be fancy for his "Baya."

So aside from the fact that the card stores, the florists,  restaurants cash in on Mother's Day, what can we do to make it less commercial and more meaningful?  For one thing... those of us who live by the Judeo-Christian ethic, and there are one or two, I believe, can validate this holiday as fulfilling half the commandment of honoring your Mother and your Father.  (Obviously the second half to be fulfilled in June.)  I know I honor the memory of my grandmothers and my husband's grandmothers by maintaining the values for which they struggled.  And I think a great way I  honor my mother and my mother-in-law is in the way my husband and I raise our children.  All three show their grandmothers (and grandfathers, but again this is Mother's Day) deep respect and love.  My kids call, text, and Facebook, and yes even visit their grandparents.  Although it's true that the grandparents NEVER see the Facebook messages and probably only see about 1/3 of the texts, they get it.  In fact, its very unlikely they will see this declaration of love to them, unless I print it and bring it over for Sunday brunch.  

I love my mother.  
I love being a mother.
I love that I can see my daughter as a link in an incredibly strong chain of women... but maybe that's for another blog.

So, I'll end with this.  Maybe Mother's Day IS a fabricated scam of a holiday, designed to get you to spend money.  But I just realized that I'm okay with it.  I just realized that I wouldn't trade anything for those precious days when I took off from work to attend a Mother's Day Tea with my third grader's class!  Or when I came home from the a long day of work and there were crepe paper flowers in a hand-painted ceramic pot sitting at my place at the dinner table. 

And for you kids who may be reading this, no matter how old you are, we moms aren't joking when we say we'd rather have a home-made gift than a store-bought one!  So you don't have to buy into the whole commercial "Your Mom Needs A Diamond Bracelet or You Are Crap" business.  Cook something.  Create something.  Send her some new music.  (That might just be me.)

As for this mom?  I want nothing more than to sit a the same table with my three kids, my husband and my parents, and my brother's family, and any other family we can bring together, and have a great meal with some excellent music and a pitcher of  margaritas. Maybe outside! If you want to make me a pink-dyed macaroni necklace, I'll gladly wear that too. 

Happy Mother's Day to all.  

Okay, one more thing... We do like flowers. If you haven't ordered flowers yet, consider going with fair trade this year.  Click here for one link to Fair Trade flowers for Mother's Day.  We moms would appreciate you not exploiting other moms to get us our bouquets.

Alright, another last thing... here's a cute article from the Jewish Forward about Jewish Mothers, put on my Facebook page by my older son.  He had a few pretty funny 6-word descriptions for me... Click Here to open in a new window.

The five of us, in 2011

Me and my mom.  I'm sitting down.  Something funny is going on. 

Mother's Day, 2014... I must be growing up... I would also now welcome a meaningful donation to Mazon, Heifer International, Cancer Care or Shelter our Sisters.

*After going back to do my due diligence  this is a quote from Mary Kay Blakely.

Oy, Another Storm Already?

What if the Jewish People Named the Storms?  A short and obvious blog post on Erev Nemo.

Weather alert... such a cute icon for such dangerous conditions.
Kinda like the name Nemo.

We don't name them.  Someone else does, while we do other jobs.  But what if we did?

First of all, being a Reform Jew, I'd have male and female names together on the same list, and of course mix the classic with the modern depending on my mood.  

Here goes.

Asher
Bruriah
Cantor (no-brainer on this one)
Delilah (also good for the Deadheads)
Elijah (especially fitting if you think the end is near)
Frieda
Gad (I played Gad in the Brandeis version of Joseph*, always have a soft spot for this brother)
Hymie (too obvious?)
Izzie  
Judah
Keshet
Lior
Miriam
Natan
Oded
P'nina (Can you just hear Jim Cantore announcing that Superstorm P'nina is working it's way up the coast?)

I'm sort of stuck on Q.  I'll take any suggestions from the readers.

Raisel ... or Reuben ... can't decide.  Need another girl's name, but I love a good Reuben.
Shmendrick
Tekiyah  
Uriel
Vered
Wolfie

X ... no X names exactly, so I went and got the Jewish name dictionary.  There was Xavier, which means Savior.  So, technically we could put in Mashiach here.. but I think I'll leave X blank as well.

Yadin (could have gone with my Hebrew name, Yaffa, but that's more like a wimpy tropical storm.)
Zahara

So there you have my suggestion for Jewish storm names.  I will be happy to edit this list if you make a good case for changes.  Everyone enjoy Nemo, and Shabbat Shalom!

So, pretty much everywhere???

*Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  Google it. It's still great.

Thank you to devoted reader RMK, who suggested Qadisha for the letter Q.  Very exotic, and works well with Black History month too.

Well, it seems that my blog inspired a guest blogger, and stage and screen actor, Geoffrey Cantor, to create his own list, ostensibly to give Jewish names to the second year (5774) of storms.

A- Adonai (For who else could create such a storm)

B- Bupkus (You call this a storm?)

C- I've nothing to say

D- Daven (Bowing to the power..) David (a king of a Storm)

E- Elijah (Storms always mean SOMEthing is coming)

F- Frumah Sarah (What is this about you snowblowing your DRIVEway? Yes your                     DRIVEway!)

G- Golem (If it's a monster of a storm) or Gornisht (See Bupkus)

H- Hamen (It's bad, and you have to get so drunk that you can't tell it's a storm)

I- Isaac (Good name and the meteorologist who screwed up on Galveston)

J- Jesus (He was Jewish)

K- Kedusha (It's reverent), or if its a wet snow? Kreplach

L- Latke (It's...cute)

M- Moses, Mordecai, Maimonides

N- Nimrod

O- Oy VEY!  

P- Pinchas

Q- Quetzalcoatl (nod to my Native American brothers)

R- Rivkah, Rebecca, Rachel, Ruth, Rugelach

S- Sarah....SO NU?

T- Tevya

U- Ushpizin (That's some visitor)

V- VODKA (what Jews in Russia Drink when it snows)

W- WODKA (what Jews in Poland Drink when it snows)

X- Xander

Z- Zaftig (if it's a hefty storm), or ZION.

The author, and the guest blogger, in a moment of sibling mock strangulation and  iphone-foolery.

Happy New Year

To paraphrase the Beatles just a little, there's nothing I can say here that hasn't already been said...
First of all

Happy New Year!

Thanksgiving has come and gone.  This year, the Pilgrim-tinis were pretty much a glass of vodka with a cranberry waved over the top of it.  And yes, we all did shots right before dinner again.  Flu shots, for those of you who've been playing along at home.

We are still in the aftermath of a hurricane that knocked our legs out from under us.  When I sat down to write about it, I was not even sure what part to focus on.

The destruction in my town?  The destruction beyond belief of the Jersey shore? The recovery efforts? How we sat in the darkness and the cold and the complete absence of communication for days?  As is my way, I am quick to notice the spots of good, love, grace and joy, going on in the everyday.

The hurricane came to the NY/NJ area slowly, so we had about 2 1/2 days to prepare.  If you have read my earlier blogs Wake of the Flood, Someday ..., Sometime a Great Notion, and others, we have had our share of disasters.  We have had trees fall our our house (that's when I started writing this blog), and in our yard, and in our lake!  We got through Hurricane? Superstorm? Sandy fairly unscathed and then helped our family, our neighbors and  now will continue to help fellow New Jersey and New York residents who did not manage as well.  My first New Year's Resolution?  I won't forget about those people who lost everything in the storm.  I'll keep donating money and my time and my blog words and my voice so that they can rebuild their homes.  And while I'm at it... I'll resolve not to forget about the folks who are still shaking their fists at the sky or at God and will never name their daughters Katrina.  I saw that Holy Name Hospital, here in Bergen County, NJ, is donating money and time to Haiti, and I made a promise to myself not to forget them either... let's not let one natural disaster allow us to forget that others are still in great need from the previous hurricanes, tornadoes, tsunamis, and so on.  Resolution number two:  I'm not going to "give it a rest" when it comes to talking about climate change.  This has to be our number one issue...

even though...

Just a few days after the tremendous concert for hurricane relief, cleverly called 12/12/12, a young man in Connecticut raided his mother's gun cabinet and tore into an elementary school.  It was the middle of Hanukkah, and just before Christmas, and the entire nation cried for 20 children and the 6 teachers who tried to save them.  I spoke my piece (Get Rid of the Guns Now) in a quickly written blog post... but the pain still lingers, and I plan to teach my students the importance of gun control legislation when we return to our classes. (Do you readers know about the Gun Show Loophole? It's outrageous.)  My next New Year's Resolution:  Be a a more vocal advocate for gun control policies and educate our children who will become voters on these issues.

Clean slate, new calendars, fresh start.  Do we have to wait for January 1 to do something?  Of course not.  But if you need that kick in the tuchus to remind you, well, here it is.  My daughter and I were discussing how random January 1 is.  As Jews we have two New Years' and we really place more of our spiritual and emotional oomph on the one in September (or October...okay very rarely August).  But there's nothing wrong with a little secular soul searching.

Okay, I'll get off my heavy high horse for a second.
My doctor told me I had high cholesterol.
(Stay with me here.)
I was shocked.
He said I needed to go on a strong dose of Crestor... (a medication for high cholesterol) immediately.
I asked if I could please try to correct this with diet and exercise.
He said yes, absolutely, that's a must, and also start taking Crestor right away.
So, I joined a gym.
(This is not so much of a "New Year's Resolution" as a "Do-this-or-be-a-person-at-high-risk-of-having-a-heart-incident," but still, I'm pleased with the gym membership and the dedication to less red meat and more fish and olive oil.)
And my husband and I both have high cholesterol now, so it can be a couples thing. We both got the Nike Fuel Bands and have a friendly competition about how many Fuel Points we've earned in a day.  Of course sitting here writing my blog earns about ... oh, let's see, ZERO, so my writing* may go down while my cholesterol goes down as well.

We also incorporated a "No meat Tuesday" policy.  Easy, right?  My husband has a fantastic cafeteria where he works.  Made-to-order omelets, gourmet pizza, veggie wraps, what could be easier?  On Tuesdays, I work at home til about 3, and my dinner is pizza or pasta at the synagogue where I teach. Not gourmet, actually not even good, ACTUALLY does not even provide enough protein to drive home... but meat-free, yes.   On our first Tuesday, I texted him to remind him.  He texted me back to say, "Too late.  I had a pastrami sandwich for breakfast and a turkey wrap for lunch.  And for dinner we are going to a steak house for someone's birthday."   So much for meat-free Tuesdays.  Maybe his New Year's Resolution will be to try again this month.

I am feeling good about 2013.  I did not love the way 2012 ended.  On the other hand, if you think back, it wasn't all bad.   It was just this past May when President Obama did something unprecedented:  he came out as a proponent of same-sex marriage.  And in November, same-sex marriage passed in a few more states (although, Mr. Chris Christie... it was not even on the ballot in New Jersey, like you said it would be... ahem???).   Israel had a tough time as well, but it ended relatively quickly and I am thankful for that, and hopeful that it stays peaceful, even if it is a tentative peace.

So what are your New Years Resolutions?  Do you even make them?  Do you keep them?  As for me... I am going to get my work done quickly today so I can try to get to the gym... and even if I can't, I'll walk the dogs just a little bit further down my street than I normally would have. 

Here's looking a better, healthier, more caring, more inclusive 2013 for all of us!


Happy New Year!


*My writing QUANTITY, not QUALITY, I hope.

Hold the Onions

I bageled someone in the airport yesterday.

It's not as invasive as it sounds.  It's our (the Jewish People's) way of finding out if a stranger is a Member of the Tribe (MOT*), or just someone from Manhattan.

I could have come right out and said, "So, are you rushing home for Kol Nidre?" 
But that would be too obvious. 

So, I waited til the conversation naturally came around to the perfect moment.

We are sitting in the fairly comfortable Sea-Tac (now I understand... Seattle-Tacoma! Ah-hah!) waiting area for our flight.  Facing the big window and watching the planes.  I'm on my laptop.  She's on her phone.  She's speaking so loudly that I can't help but hear every word of her conversation, which is not unpleasant, but just a bit distracting. Lots of food mentions.  So far these are my three clues, not to stereotype my own people or anything.  But, actually no mention of Rosh HaShannah, the Jewish New Year I assume she has just celebrated with them all, or Yom Kippur, the mighty day of awe I figure we are both trying to get back for.  More clues are needed.

She's off the phone. Brand new iPad is out.  She is complaining loudly to it.  Hmm. So she's richer than me, and probably older than me, but this is also not a dead give-away.   She's muttering about how to get "the Internet hooked up" around here.  I'm pretty sure I can help... do I dive in?  No need, her phone rings again.

Why am I compelled to connect with this woman in the airport who might be Jewish?  Is is because I have been travelling already half a day and have hours more, and just want to chat with someone?  Is it because I feel the need to find another MOT (member of the tribe, remember?) in middle of an area where we are so few? Or maybe, during these "Days of Awe" as we call them, when we are supposed to take time to reflect, I have been so busy I have not stopped to BE.  And seeing this woman made me feel that it was time to come home to my people.  (Which I literally was on my way to do...)

And then my chance came.

She hangs up the phone, and this time I had been so deep in my thoughts, and updating my Facebook page, that I actually had not been eavesdropping on her conversation.

"Excuse me...?"  It's her! 
"Yes?"  She has an upset look.
"Do you know what kind of plane we will be on?  My daughter just told me it's a small one.  I'm nervous."
"I do actually.  I looked it up.  It's a 737.  It's two rows of 3 seats.  A lot bigger than the plane I took here from Portland."  
"Is it safe?"
She's serious.  Wow.  Isn't every plane pretty safe except when it's not?  
"Yes!  Of course... and look, it doesn't even look like it'll be that crowded... When I flew out here, every seat was filled and I had a middle seat.  I'll tell you, I had such shpilkes**"

That was it.  I had my chance.  I bageled her.  She not only forgot she was nervous, she took the bait, or shall  I say, the lox, and we had a great conversation about Judaism.  She shared some of her story with me, and I shared mine.  And she WAS in fact, rushing home for Yom Kippur, as I was.  There we were, the only two Jews in all of Sea-Tac, finding each other at gate N-9, waiting for a plane.

Later on the plane, I heard two people from the exact same tiny  town in Minnesota make a similar connection.  I wonder what they call it?  Beef Jerkeying each other?  

I wanted to say good-bye to her when I saw her at the baggage claim, but, of course, she was on her phone.  So I gave her a little wave and went on my way.  

I didn't make up the term "Bageling," and I don't remember who did, but I love it. If you have a similar story, I'd love to hear it.  And now back to preparing for the awe-filled days of awe.

Yep, I traveled on Air Alaska. For the record, just as sub-par as the rest of them.

*Thanks to Marjorie S. for this nifty new abbreviation!
**Shpilkes:  When you cannot possibly sit still one more second.