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.

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.

You had me at Sochi

I was prepared to write another cynical blog post, something like my scathing rundown of the Superbowl.  This one was going to tear the Olympics apart and make fun of the whole thing, from the Opening Ceremony, through the costumes of skaters, and finally really lay in to the absurdity of the biathlon. (Ski, ski, ski, lie down, shoot, get up ski.  Really???)  I was very concerned, and still am, about the security of the athletes, and their families.  I was, and still am outraged by Putin's stance against the LGBT community.

But I can't write the piece I thought I was going to write.
Because I'm completely sucked in.

Yes.  Riveted, addicted, and glued to the games.

I have not watched every event, not by a long shot, but I have really enjoyed what I have watched, and fallen a little bit in love with each person, as I hear his or her story and and watch the mini-drama as it unfolds.

I didn't love the opening ceremony.  The pageantry was too much, and I felt it was too long. I didn't like seeing Putin sitting there, not reacting, with an uncanny resemblance to Dr. Evil. (I still see it, when they show him at the various events, and you will see it too.  No smiles, no excitement.  He is NOT a guy I'd want to go for cocktails with.)

"Tiny little 'laser beams' on their heads."

I have never been such a big fan of the winter Olympics before, but maybe it's because of the winter we are having here in New Jersey.  We have so much ice on our front walk and driveway that I can barely make it to my car without slipping and falling...how on EARTH do those men and women glide so effortlessly across the ice, twirling, swizzle-sticking, doing ballet, jumping and leaping and turning themselves into human dreidels?

Yes, that's what it must be... each of these athletes is competing and excelling in a sport that I cannot even do just a little bit.  I cannot ice skate.  That was not something we did back in my growing up years.  There was a roller rink, where I went once, and was helped around the place a few times by a handsome guy named Gino on a group date when I was 15.  But that's it.

The same goes for skiing.  I realize I may come off looking particularly non-sport-y as I share all this, but I have gone skiing exactly twice.  Cross-country skiing once, too hard, too cold and kind of boring.  And downhill once, where I was THE only one in the beginner class told NOT to go out onto the mountain.  I spent the day in the lodge by the fire drinking coffee and reading a book while my family had fun on the slopes.

So when I see these skiers and snow-boarders doing amazing tricks, or going 80 miles an hour down a hill, I am just in awe.  And some of them are wearing just a leotard!  I'm sure you've seen them.  They wear the layer I wear under my clothes just to walk to the car to go to work.  They fly down the mountain, or around the half-pipe, while I am not sure I can walk to the curb without taking a header.

They are super men and women.

Like I said, I didn't want to love these games.  With Russia's openly anti-gay stance I was ready to boycott. Yes, I was going to boycott (how they'd miss me) but these amazing young and not-so-young athletes are risking their bodies, dedicating their lives and flying around the world, I figured the least I can do is watch them.  And cheer them on.  And wait to see if anyone will take a brave stand and raise a rainbow flag on the podium.

And besides, after watching night after night, I'm an expert judge.  Aren't you?  Tara Lipinski and I can call the figure skating like nobody's business.  I can tell you if someone's going to nail a triple axel before they even land.  I've watched so much of the men's and women's half pipe, and I can tell you what a YOLO trick is. 

There are a few sports I've missed, such as hockey, and skeleton, which appears to be the backwards luge. I have to say I missed Bob Costas, who left the helm of the ship with pink-eye, but has finally returned.

Looks pretty pink, I'd say, Bob.

There was also a big to-do about the Russian speed skater who unzipped the top of her skating outfit when she crossed the finish line.  Apparently she forgot she had nothing on underneath.  That's a big thing to forget, but I guess when you are winning a gold medal for your country, you get a little crazy.

Hello World.

I haven't even looked at a medal count during these games. I'll be relieved when the athletes all come home safe and sound, maybe bruised from the mountain, but safe from any blast of a suicide bomb or explosion from a terrorist making a statement.  I know people say that we have to put aside our differences and come together for these two weeks of sports.  But I think its our differences that make us fun and make us interesting to one another.  It's learning to accept and play nice with our differences that should be what the Olympics are all about.  The athletes probably get that.  Maybe someday the governments and leaders will too.

And now, I'll get back to my front-steps-of-death and try to take my dogs for a walk.  I may do a double-toe loop followed by a jump off the bottom step, but it won't be on purpose.

Real scenes from my front-steps of death, taken by my frozen-mittened hand holding an iPhone and two dogs on leashes.  I win at least a bronze in the suburban Olympics!

Superbowl or Super-mistake?

Dear Football Fans,
  I don't watch a lot of tv, and I don't watch any football. So, it's really ironic that I'm writing a blog about the Superbowl.  But I am going to to help you all out today and save you from spending a LOT of money that could be better spent pretty much anywhere else.
  I have seen a few commercials and print ads, and I need to dispel this massive untruth right away. If you choke up the big bucks for your Superbowl tickets and think you are coming to New York, you are NOT.  You are coming to New Jersey.  
   Yes. That's right.  The Meadowlands Sports Complex is in East Rutherford, New Jersey.  Not that I've ever seen a sport played there, but I've seen countless concerts in that big bowl of echo-y sound and I know that they play football there too, even, as ludicrous as this may sound, in the winter.

And WHEN did it become METLIFE stadium?

   I don't know why New Jersey is getting the Superbowl. 
   Maybe we need the attention.  We barely ever make the national news.
   If you have to fly here, well, good luck dealing with our airports.  If you thought you were going to New York and you booked your flight to Kennedy or LaGuardia, you won't make it to the game anyway because of traffic.  If you fly into Newark, I will apologize right now for the downright surly manner in which you will be treated upon landing... 
"Excuse me, where do I get my luggage?" 
 "What do I fucking look like? Google maps? Look at the signs."

Traffic getting in and out of the stadium will be horrible.  It's not like they've had years of practice.  And I just checked, game time is 6:30, so it will be getting dark then too.  Perfect.

Oh, yea, good luck finding your car after the game.  "Fuggedaboutit."

  There are only one or two hotels near there, so you will probably have to drive a way on one of our congested highways. But don't think about taking in the sights, because the funny thing about East Rutherford is that there is exactly nothing else to do around there.  
  If you like fast food, you're all set, so that's a plus.  We have every type on both sides of Route 17 North and South of the Stadium, and a dozen CVS and Walgreens' stores to buy antacid after eating all that fast food. The last time I drove past, there were about 4 Starbucks', at least one with a drive-through, which will be handy since you'll probably have rotten weather.



   Okay, there is ONE good restaurant.  My family and I like to go there, and I really should get a slice of the total my blog brings them.  Check out Park and Orchard,  in East Rutherford, for a casual, but delicious dinner.  Buddy's Pasta is my all time favorite dish there.  And you can go swimming in their martinis.
   There's really nothing else to do near the Meadowlands except for one topless bar, and rows of discount tire stores, strip malls and gas stations.  Half of which will be closed because of the Blue Laws still in effect in our county on Sundays.
    So, for goodness sake, STAY HOME.  Stay in the nice pleasant place you already live, with warm weather and friendly people. Watch the game on television with your nachos and hummus and beer.

So, who did Sabra have to muscle out for this dubious distinction?  

   Don't give NJ the money, we will just spend it foolishly, on Xanadu, or bright red traffic cones.  You can use that money for your kids' college tuition, or saving the whales or adding on to your home.  Or send it to me, and I'll use it (for my kid's college tuition, or saving the whales or adding on to MY home!).  
  But if you're really set on coming, at least you can know that you're staying in New Jersey and not New York, so you don't have to worry about the bridge traffic.  And I have three empty bedrooms I'd be willing to rent out for the weekend for a very good price.  

Hey buddy, we got your snow removal right here.

I found this on Instagram... this is pretty much how I feel about the whole thing...

I just found this on twitter... Hilarious..

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

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

Menorah Christmas Tree= Holiday FAIL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I'm Crocheting

I am crocheting a cap. 
I'll finish this project if it kills me.

Oh. Why did I use that phrase? It won't kill me. It may frustrate me, but I'm healthy and strong and I'm crocheting this blue mess of yarn in memory of a boy I didn't even know.

Two things I do know:  I learned how to crochet in eighth grade.  And I don't follow written instructions very well.  I've already torn out eight or nine rows of this thing.  After every few rows I hold it up an say, "this looks nothing like a cap."

So, what's the story behind this?  Like the movie Titanic, you already know the ending.  Tragically, the little boy didn't make it. 

His family's story is not mine to share. 

Here's mine.

Last year I was at a dinner party on a weekend while I was working in Vancouver, Washington.  At the table, we were having great conversations about life, family, work, and the topic came to blogs. Three of the guests, two of whom are rabbis, were discussing the blog of their friend Phyllis.  

"Juliet,  do you know Phyllis?  Do YOU read her blog?
"No, I don't know her, I don't know about her blog."
"She writes a great one, just like you. You should really read it."

Hmm, okay.  With that little compliment thrown in there, how could I not check out Phyllis' blog.  After dinner that night, back in my hotel room, I found it via a link on the rabbi's Facebook page.  

After about one minute, it was clear that Phyllis was not just like me.  She was not blithely blogging about Eric Clapton, or smartwool socks, or posting pictures of her dogs frolicking the snow.  She wasn't even throwing out some good classroom tips or education stories. Phyllis was Rabbi Phyllis Sommer.  And her son, nicknamed Superman Sam, was currently in remission, having gone through treatment for Leukemia.  Her honest, almost poetic, way with words made me want to keep reading, and I read it...learning her story on a backwards timeline.

It was painful.  I closed my laptop.  But I couldn't turn off my mind. That's when I became part of this extended family that Phyllis Sommer lets in with her honesty.

I have finished that job in Washington, and moved on to jobs much closer to home, here in New Jersey.  I remain close to the rabbi there, Rabbi Elizabeth Dunsker, as well as the other rabbi, Rabbi Josh Caruso and his wife, Leah, who were at the dinner party that night.  And I continue to read the blog about Superman Sam.  I read that his cancer came back.  I read that they were frustrated by limited number of treatments left to them.

I read that they decided to take their other children out of school so that Sam could see Israel.  

And I read that he is out of treatment options.

And I cry when I read this.  

I have known many families who have lost children before.  I have cried with them.  I have led shiva minyanim for them.  But where does this emotion come from now?   I can only think that it is because this woman (this incredibly brave and honest woman) has shared her story so openly, that I feel I have been let in.  And it's touched my heart.  And it brings up feelings of loss and heartache that are as real as if I know the Sommer family personally.

On December 3, Rabbi Dunsker, and 35 other Reform rabbis posted that they were shaving their heads.  Shaving their heads?  What? Yes! And asking people to pledge any amount which will go to pediatric cancer research.  Great!  Click, credit card, send. Easy. I donate in memory of a special young girl who lost her battle to cancer.  I feel better.

I read Phyllis' blog.  Sam is dying. He's withdrawing. I read and re-read.  I can't stop thinking about this tragic scene.  I call my three kids and don't mention this at all. I just joke with them and talk about when we will be together over winter vacation.

I need to do more.

My heart is breaking.  Sam represents every family who has gone through this and every family who will. 

Then I see that Leah Caruso has posted a simple question on Facebook... asking if anyone can knit or crochet.  "I can do both," I quickly answer.  (This is true, though she doesn't know that my special learning disability keeps me from following patterns.  I don't do well with recipes either.  Come to think of it, I don't love rules, but that's another story.)  I immediately know what she's up to... caps for bald rabbis, and if we get enough people, extra caps to sell, to raise more money for St. Baldricks, the organization chosen by the rabbis.

I fly into action.  I organize my elective class in Wyckoff, NJ to agree to TRY to learn to crochet as I tell them Sammy's story, and then my friend, Rabbi Elizabeth Dunsker's brave response.  I buy the right yarn and crochet hooks for me and for the class.

"This looks nothing like a cap."

I start crocheting like mad.  I go onto YouTube and make sure I am doing it correctly after all this time (I was, but I hope I can teach it to non-lefties!) and I buy a crochet booklet to learn the abbreviations.

An impending snowstorm may mean that work is cancelled and more time to work on the cap.





And then I see that Superman Sam, age 8, has died.

I find mistakes in my work, and unravel it.  

The yarn feels heavier in my hands.  It looks suddenly different.  Darker.

I'm making this in Sam's memory, not in his honor now.

I'm determined to finish.  But it's just so sad.  At first I was going to ask if we could please pick other colors, but now blue is the only color it could possibly be.

This is the picture that his mother posted.

Following this blog, I'll share links so you can donate, knit, crochet or read more about this tragically short life.  If all you do is click "like," then I just wasted two hours of typing.  Please consider donating.  As we teach our children, even a small donation makes a big difference.  Each of the rabbis has a goal, and I'm positive that none would mind surpassing that goal.

May Samuel Sommer's memory be a blessing and may each of us go forward and make a difference for having known this story. 

Click here to read the blog that started it all : Rabbis Phyllis and Michael Sommer's  Superman Sam

Funeral information and more click here

To make a donation to the St. Baldricks Fund click here. 

To learn about how your can knit or crochet, please message me or reply to this blog.  That is being handled on a smaller scale.

More articles and other blogs to read:
The Times of  Israel: Superman Sam 

Information about the logo

Good-bye Superman Sam from a Pissed off God

How to help the newly bereaved