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.

If it's Purim, it Must Be Passover

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

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

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

PESAH

PASSOVER

aka

Hag He'Aviv -- Holiday of Spring

Hag HaMatzot -- Holiday of Matzot

Z'man Heiruteinu -- The time of our Freedom

Hag He'Aviv- The Holiday of Spring

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

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

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

Z'man Heirutainu -- The Time of Our Freedom 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the English Translation:

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

Even in the mall.

Very Mature

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Good-bye Dear Friend

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

I can't think when I first met him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Since then we have been together many more times.  

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

Tali, Yael, Me, Butzit, January 2012

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

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

The Festival of Freedom... but Whose?

I just watched my older son and daughter drive down the street from the bathroom window.  In our house the bathroom window overlooks the driveway and rather than have them see me standing in the driveway staring at them, I snuck here.  From this vantage point, I can open a spot between the white horizontal blinds and watch the car make its way down our street.

 My kids, enjoying a little together time before they say good-bye

For nearly a week, the house was full again.  More than full at times, with all three kids, my in-laws, and various  friends, a boyfriend, and a couple of sleep-overs of friends. My husband took off time from work.   We ran the dishwasher, the washing machine, and drier more times in a week than we usually do in a month, and went through more Poland Spring 5 Gallon jugs than the state of Maine probably exports in one week.

And the matza!  Like fur when my dogs are shedding, there are crumbs absolutely everywhere, even in places where I know that matza was not eaten.  (My bed?  The bathroom? Well, lets just say, it better NOT have been eaten in those places!) 


This was the joyful week of Passover... long anticipated and over so quickly.   We also call it the Holiday of Our Freedom, although that seems like a bit of an ironic joke if you are looking at it from my perspective.  Yes, of course we celebrate the freedom from slavery and we tell our children the story of the Exodus from Egyptian bondage.  But looking back at this past week, it only just now feels that I have even enough free time to finally reflect.


We are certainly bound to eat only very specific foods.  No bread, of course, but in our house it does not end there.  We, and when I say we, what I mean is, I clean the pantry, the snack drawers, and the refrigerator and remove every food item which contains any bit of "hametz," the generic term for food which contains flour, corn, soy, yeast, wheat, or anything which could act as a leavening agent.  I take this opportunity, as many people do, to thoroughly clean, wipe down, spray and re-line the shelves of the pantry.  This is both time consuming and cathartic.  I donate a few bags to the Center for Food Action, I throw away half finished boxes and bags, and I line up items on the counter for the kids to finish, much to their delight.  

I don't know why we do this, but we buy chocolate and other candy during Passover that we would never  EVER buy during the rest of the year.

Then there is the the cleaning of the rest of the house.  Depending on how early a start I have gotten, the de-cluttering will go one of two ways... true de-cluttering or shoving everything into boxes and bags and putting it all in the office.  I had to go with the latter this year, as my in-laws arrived on Thursday, and the first Seder was on Friday.  Today I will begin going through all those boxes and bags and looking for all that important stuff I buried a week and a half ago.  I carved a pathway to the computer so I that I could do my work and my son and I could manage to keep up with Facebook during this week. 

Next we have the cooking.  If you celebrate Passover, you know that the cooking does not stop after the first two nights... Oh no.  Because we are so fussy about what we eat, we pretty much eat at home all week.  So we are cooking (and in this case, it is "we") a LOT.  And though we cut out things like corn, rice, and pasta, we get very creative with other carbs like potatoes and quinoa.  This year, as it happens many times, Passover week was school and work vacation... so everyone was home and the kitchen was the hub of activity. 

Our Seder Table... almost ready.

Nana helps with the eggs.  

Can you say SCHMALTZ?  I know it's not healthy.  I know it's wrong.  But for one week a year, I cook with chicken fat.  I didn't read it in a cookbook, and my mom never told me to do this, but what can I say?  It's in my DNA.  And while I'm at it, I start speaking with a fake accent as if I'm from the old country, I cook and eat Matza brei, which I don't even like.  Gefilte fish and hard-boiled eggs make their way to every breakfast table.  Whipped butter appears, because it's so delicious on matza.  Some traditions I learned from my parents, some we started ourselves.  And I know my children will pass them along just as surely as I know they will tell their children that "we were slaves in Egypt."    I know that the taste of my matza-ball soup on their tongues tastes like Judaism as much as the sound of the chanting of the Shema sounds like Judaism.

Last night, I stood at the ironing board, ironing out number 2 of 4 antique tablecloths that were my grandmother's.  (I hope to beat my previous record and have all the tablecloths and napkins ironed and put away before Rosh HaShannah.)  I came across a new wine stain, and wondered if Grandma, known in her later years as GG (for Great Grandma) would be happy or furious to see that now-dulled to a rusty-red-colored mark.  Would she be glad to know that I use these so many times each year for all the Jewish holidays?  Or would she scold me (as she so often did) for not taking better care of her heirlooms  i.e. leave them folded up in the drawer and use a new tablecloth from Bloomingdales?  


So when will the feeling of freedom come?  When the mountains (literally) of laundry are done?  When the ironing is finished?  When the kitchen finally gets clean?  When I find the box that contains the two paychecks that I mistakenly put in a pile in the office somewhere?  


Or, wait a second.  


Am I feeling it now, in the luxury to ignore all those tasks, plus hours and hours of work (you know, the kind that pays the bills) that has been put on hold because I have had the freedom to give myself over completely to my family and my holiday.


Z'man Heirutainu... The Time of Our Freedom...is now.

This is actually the pile of laundry I'm ignoring while writing this blog posting.

Not exactly essential, but really helps with the feeling of freedom.
Let's call it the suggested Pesach aperitif.

Skip the Apple Pie

Click here for appropriate listening.

The New York Yankees just signed Andy Pettite for one year at $2.5 million.  (Read all about it here.)


I would like to get paid $2.5 million dollars for one year of work.  In my field of Jewish Education, that will never happen, and I will be lucky to ever even see a job that pays any Jewish Educator remotely what I believe we are worth, but that's not what this blog is about.


This is about one of the truly American things... BASEBALL.   
I love it.  Well, I love New York Yankee Baseball.


But, getting back to Andy Pettite, I'm sure that $2.5 is a lot less than he used to make, and he's gotta start in the minors, but still, I'm thrilled.  I like Andy a lot. In my mind he's a true Yankee and it will be good to see him in pinstripes again.


As I said, love Yankee Baseball.  I know that if you live somewhere else it's cool to put down New York teams, especially New York.  Okay.  "Dis" all you want.  There's something very exciting about this team and they're starting to rev up now.


I did not grow up a Yankee fan.  I've lived in lots of different cities through my life, and had a only mild interest in baseball.  I don't like other sports at all.  (Rumor has it that a New York team won the football thing this year.  Big deal.)  I only marginally follow other sports so that I don't seem like a complete idiot if and when I am ever invited to a party and the discussion comes around to something other than Jewish Education, parenting or music.


When I lived in Boston in 3rd grade, the kids were allowed to bring in their transistor radios to listen to the Red Sox games in school, so I remember pretending to like baseball then.  My Grandmother was a baseball fan and I think my Dad might have taken me to Shea Stadium to see the Mets in the 70's.

I just spent an hour trying to photo shop my own face where Susan Sarandon's  face is.
If someone knows how to do this and then get it to stick on the blog, I'd be forever grateful.
And able to be even more hilarious.

While living in Durham, NC, I started to really enjoy the game, going to the Durham Bull Stadium to watch the Durham Bulls play.  The draw, at first, I'll admit was the dozen or so local brews on tap that they had, and the low priced tickets.  But I understood the game, and it was a fun, inexpensive night out.  (A short time later, the movie Bull Durham was filmed there, and by a lucky coincidence, I was there for a cast party and met Kevin Costner. I'll bet he remembers me too.  I'm not in the film, but my friend Jean is in some of the crowd shots.)


When life took me to San Francisco, my appetite for live music surpassed by far my interest in baseball, but I still took in a few games at Candlestick park and saw the SF Giants play there.


But it wasn't until 1995 that I became a Yankees fan.  I had been living in New Jersey for several years.  Three children, two cats in the yard...the American dream!  My husband and I were both working hard at our jobs and enjoying domestic tranquility.  We'd take our kids to the park, and to little league, and the movies, drive the carpools and have family dinners on Shabbat, and on Sunday nights with my parents and my brother's family.


And when it was time for the Grateful Dead to go on tour, we would line up our babysitters, save up our money, make some sandwiches, throw some beer in the cooler and spend a few nights doing what we loved best.  Going to concerts.


Until August 8, 1995.  That was the sad day that Jerry Garcia died.

Jerry Garcia, Captain of our team.

That night we put the kids to bed and stood on our back porch and listened to tapes till the middle of the night.


Everything was gonna be different.


And that was the summer I started to watch Yankee baseball.  I had concert tickets to a show that would never happen, and fan energy that had no where to go.  But the Yankees were on top... they were a young team with great energy and they were winning too!  My husband got a pair of pretty good tickets from a client at work, and we went on a starry summer night.  It was not a Dead show, but there was an undeniable air of excitement.  Yankee Stadium was fun.


And the the players!


Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Andy Pettite, and one year later, my favorite Yankee, Tino Martinez... young handsome guys just playing baseball, every single night (practically) all summer and right through October?  How come other women don't know about this!?


Going to more games turned out to be a challenge.  It was difficult to get tickets and EXPENSIVE.


I watched a lot of baseball on tv and listened to it on the radio.  Once in a while, we would get tickets.


By another lucky coincidence, an old high school classsmate met my parents at a diner and had a conversation that I can imagine went something like this:

"Hi Doctor and Mrs. Cantor."
"Hello, didn't you go to high school with our daughter, Juliet?  Didn't I fix your broken nose in 1983?  How are you? Do you live here?  How's your family?  Look at those pretty girls, your daughters?  Is this your wife? She's lovely.  Just look at these pictures of our grandchildren!  You know Juliet lives in New Jersey again now, these are her kids, aren't they gorgeous?"
"Um, yes... I..."
"So where are you all off to on this fine day?"
"We are going to a Yankee game."
"Juliet is a Yankee fan.  Here's her number.  You should call her, she doesn't really have any friends here in New Jersey anymore.  She and her husband would love to get together with you."
"Um, well..."
"Okay, well, here's our lunch, you should try the Reuben here, it's fantastic.  Enjoy the game, I think you should put on the radio and check the traffic at the bridge.  I'll tell Juliet we saw you."

And that is how it happened that I was the lucky recipient of fantastic Yankee tickets at least once or twice a season.


That gravy train ended when he gave up his tickets... when the new Yankee stadium opened in 2009 he opted out of the price gauging upgrade and we've been fending for ourselves.


March is a very long month.  Typically it's cold and there are no vacation days or days off, unless you are lucky enough to have Spring Break, which I have never had.  (Well, I have once, but I can't write about it because this is a family blog.)  But March brings spring training.  And that means you can count down til opening day!


But with the date of April 6 being opening day and the first Seder of Passover, my excitement for some Yankee baseball may have to wait for the first few home games of the following week.  In the meantime it's time to bring up the Passover dishes and the pinstripes too, both signs that winter is almost over (was it ever here at all?) and spring feels like its on it's way, with unseasonably warm temperatures in the Northeast.

(And for those of use who can't wait, there's spring training baseball which is also televised and on the radio!)


So welcome back to Andy Pettite, I hope you play a lot this season and do what we need you to do for our pitching on the Yankees.  And good-bye and thank you to Jorge Posada for your great tenure as a Yankee since I became a fan, and was a real mensch and role model for (almost) the entire time. 


Anyone for a hot dog and a beer?

The Music Never Stopped

Click here for some appropriate background music.

Dead Freaks Unite... remember that?

When I first started my job, I was introduced to the people in my new office, and I remember going into Arthur's office at the end of the hall.  Arthur has two computers, one for his work and one for his music.  As I was brought in I heard Sugaree loud and clear from computer number two.  He didn't bother to turn it down, and we could barely hear each other.  And as I stood there, I spaced out for a second on our conversation as I wondered, "Jerry Garcia band, or Grateful Dead? No, must be the Dead, because that's defnitely Phil, not John Kahn.  That must be early 80's judging by the keyboards, gotta be Brent... I wonder if that's the Lewiston show..."  When I realized that it was my turn to say something, I said the only thing I could..."Nice to meet you Arthur!"


Our boss, who was introducing us did not seem to notice the secret handshake, or the quick acknowledgement of shared shows.  Well, that's because we Deadheads don't have a secret handshake (though some of us are huggers) and Arthur and I have not had the "favorite show" conversation yet.  


There's a T-shirt I've seen at shows that says "We are everywhere."  And I love how that's still true.

Yesterday, the Spring Tour was announced!


Yes, Furthur Fans, Deadheads, and Fellow Freaks on the East Coast spent yesterday calling, emailing, tweeting and texting each other to spread the news.  Boston, Connecticut, and, can you believe it?  The Beacon Theater in New York City.


So, while the rest of the world is up and at 'em, doing things like Christmas and Hanukkah shopping, driving their kids to sports, going to synagogue, and of course, sleeping, a tiny percent of us were decorating envelopes and taking out huge amounts of cash to be turned into postal money orders.  What am I talking about?  Read on.


The Grateful Dead has always been deadicated to their fans, in a way that has paid off for them with not only financial success but a fan loyalty that has spawned its own culture.  It's lasted since the early sixties and survived the decades of change, including the early and tragic death of beloved band leader (and now ghostly tie designer) Jerry Garcia.  One way in which the Dead shows their love is the fact that they allow people to tape their shows, despite the fact that you can buy the show from the website. 

He just keeps making them, and you guys keep buying them.  

Another way they have shown their love for us is by reserving blocks of tickets for all their shows for the fans to recieve via mail order.  It used to work by calling in to a certain phone number an writing down the info, now it appears online  at the Furthur website.  One of the sadder days in my life was receiving my tickets for the show right after Jerry died in 1995.  I still have those unused tickets.  That was the last time I did the mail order.    

My unused tickets.  Of course, they were horrible seats, but, oh how I wish we could have seen that show.

Until today.


After the news went viral yesterday that tickets were going on sale, I was pumped. I knew I could not be by my computer on Monday morning to try order online for the the eight night stand at the Beacon.  (I do actually have to work.)  Because they are playing in April during Passover, I have the whole week off, so it means I can go out late, sleep late, and just not eat or drink anything!  (Unless the Beacon has Kosher for Passover vodka, and this being New York City, that could be!)  So I got my mail order together, modestly decorated my envelope, and went to the post office with a huge wad of cash.

Waiting in line with everyone with their stacks of Christmas cards, and bags of gifts to be mailed, I smiled.  I hadn't done this in a while.  The geniuses at the post office, not thinking that today would be busy day, had two people working, so the line was out the door.  


As I waiting, I scrolled through the tweets on my phone.  Hot Tuna played last night at the Beacon.  I am going tonight, so I searched for the set list.  I texted a friend who went last night and asked for a run down of the show.  


After trying to ignore two very whiny children, a woman having a loud conversation on her cell that none of us wanted to hear, and three extremely inappropriately dressed people among a line of about 30 of us, it was my turn.  I asked for my postal money order for the exact amount for my four tickets.  $298.  I'm grinning ear to ear.  I take it to the filthy little work table where someone is addressing a pile of 110 Christmas cards.  (I know this because I heard him ask for 110 Christmas stamps 20 minutes ago.  He's nowhere near the end of his pile.) As I take my groovy envelope and put it into the mail slot, I hear the scruffy guy at the counter request a postal money order for $298 along with a stamped number ten envelope.   He and I did not do the secret Deadhead handshake... but I couldn't help but think...
"We are everywhere!"

P.S.  This was the first time I got my money order back.  I had to buy my tickets online with the rest of the world.