Letting Go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, he asked us not to visit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Christmas Post from a Jewish Blogger

Looking at the back of my car, you might think you'd caught up with Santa's sleigh.

Toys for kids of all ages!

As I have done for probably about 30 years or more, I have been a happy partner in a toy drive in conjunction with a Hebrew School for the holidays.  This year is no different, and I will deliver the toys today to a shelter which keeps women and children safe from abusive situations.

Typically, like today, I deliver the toys alone, quietly in the middle of the day.  According to Jewish tradition, this is the way to go actually.  Anonymously (although when I remember, I do get a form for our taxes), and allowing the recipients to keep their dignity.  They don't know the donors, and the donors, in this case, members of our congregation, don't know where I am bringing the toys. 

But one year, things happened a little differently.

In a turn of events I never could have expected, I found myself in the middle of Hackensack, NJ with a car overflowing with toys, and my own toddler son about to engage in a mitzvah (elevated good deed) that I would never forget.

That year I had been asked to collect toys for Jewish young people who lived in several group homes in Hackensack.  The students in my Hebrew High School delivered above and beyond.  The night we were to wrap the gifts, the amount was simply overwhelming.  Back in those days, I drove a big old Chevy van, and it's a good thing. 

My van was full of huge garbage bags of gifts, each wrapped in Hanukkah paper, and labeled for a boy or girl, and the age for whom the toy was appropriate.  Also in my car was a small pile of toys we deemed inappropriate for donation:  Christmas books, baby toys, and anything that looked used.  I'd deliver those to a shelter at another time. 

I got to the drop-off location, and they took as much as they could use.  But, to our surprise, I really had too much.  The director asked me to come to their Hanukkah party so I could see the faces of the young people when they opened their gifts, but I had to teach that night, so I had to miss the fun.  But I left with my van still HALF FULL of wrapped Hanukkah presents. 

This was before smart phones, so home I went.  I opened this book we used to get called a phone book  and started to look for homeless shelters in Bergen County.  I made a few calls and I found a shelter - coincidentally right back in Hackensack - and even more coincidentally - if I could come back tomorrow - it was their Christmas Party!  And their usual donors had not come through- they had nothing under their tree as of now.  I wanted to tell them it was beshert (meant to be) but I think they knew that.  I made a plan with the director of the shelter to meet the next day.

That day, Thursday, my little son Jacob, who was about 3, did not have his pre-school, so I popped him into his car seat, bundled up in his little snow suit.  No MapQuest or GPS - I navigated by sense of direction back then! And with Jacob's favorite Hanukkah cassette tape playing we drove back to Hackensack with a car full of toys.  Every so often I'd hear his little sing-song voice say, "Waldo!" as he had found the "Where's Waldo" Christmas book from the pile in my van and was finding Waldo in the North Pole scene, then in the busy shopping scene, then in the snowball fight scene.

I got to the shelter, and it was set up like an apartment house, with a common room and a front office.  At first I didn't see any residents, just the office staff, who helped me bring the heavy bags into the common room.  There was a little Christmas tree, decorated with ancient decorations and bright lights.  There was an old television, that was on for no one in particular.  The old couches and chairs looked comfortable, but worn and threadbare.  The room was clean but smelled like smoke and although decorated for Christmas, was anything but festive.  

As promised, there was nothing under the tree.

The director as me if I wanted to put the presents under the tree. 

Um, sure, ok.  I un-bundled little Jacob and took my coat off and we got to work.  I was a little worried he would want to open the presents himself, but he had fun putting the presents around the bottom of the tree, and quickly learned that the side with ribbon and the tag had to go up.  With the tv news as our background music, the job went along smoothly.

While we were working on this I realized we were being watched.  A mother and her baby had come into the room.  He must have been 2 or younger.  Despite the fact it was freezing outside and pretty cold inside, the baby was dressed in only a t-shirt and diaper.  Nothing on his feet.  I'll never forget the juxtaposition of my bundled up boy sitting amid plenty and this little guy, in just a shirt and diaper.

The mom and I smiled at each other.  Jacob and I were almost done.  I said to them both that I thought Santa might be coming soon.  I went in to the office to let them know we were finishing up.

The director had a shocked look on her face.  I asked her what was up?  She told me that their Santa was just arrested.

"Do you want to be our Santa today for our Christmas party?"

Wow.  I'd would have loved that!  But I had to say no,  I had to pick up my other two children at school and then go to work.  But what an opportunity for a Jewish woman!  Still to this day, I think I would have been a great Santa!

As we were getting ready to go, I whispered to Jacob, "Do you think that little baby would like that Waldo book?"  Jacob thought that was a great idea.  So we went out to the van and got the book.  Jacob handed it to the baby who clutched it to his chest tightly.  His mom got tears in her eyes that matched mine.  I looked over at the director of the shelter.  She was wiping away tears as well. 

We turned around and looked at all the Hanukkah presents under their little Christmas tree.  The room seemed to sparkle in a way it didn't when we got there.  The director turned the tv on to cartoons for the little boy. He was still clutching his book  when we left.  The mom was thanking us.  Jacob scored a candy cane, probably his first. 

I forgot to ask for a receipt.

Maybe I did get to play Santa after all. 

Santified version of me by Peter White 2015

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.

Carry that weight

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To Remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good thing it was a small lectern!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

April 27, 2014

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

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.

Once In A While You Get Shown the Light

August 6, 2013

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

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

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

Then this.

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

YES!  Of COURSE I do!  I LOVED Alex!  

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

I was temporarily speechless.

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

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

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

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


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

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.