Throw Back -- Any Day

The other night I had dinner with my parents.

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

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

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

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

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

December 2, 1967

The Clinton Inn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back when I used to pretend I liked cake. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.