Ladies and Gentlemen- The Beatles

At the tender age of five, my parents gave me a record player and the 45 record of the Beatles "I Want to Hold Your Hand."   I was hooked from an early age at the perfect time - 1965 - and I have loved these four guys - John, Paul, George and Ringo ever since.

So of course I am thrilled about the recent news of their long-awaited reunion.

At this point, no one thought it would happen.  Newspapers, magazines and online sources stopped guessing and even hinting about it a long time ago.  I can't even think about the last time anyone suggested a collaboration.

But here it is, 2016 and the Fab Four have announced three stadium shows in Europe and plans are underway for at least four U.S. dates for the summer.  And naturally people here are going beserk. But with the recent passing of David Bowie, Glenn Frey, Paul Kantner, and Maurice White it seems that the time was right to bring the magic back.

WHAT HAVE THEY BEEN DOING:

John Lennon - Ever since the attempt on his life in the middle of New York City in 1980, John has focused his attention on his sons Julian and Sean, and his wife Yoko.  He occasionally shows up on other artists' albums (un-credited) but mostly spends his studio time helping his family with their projects.  He is rarely seen out and about, and keeps a very low profile.  Manhattan residents seem to understand that John wishes to remain private, and any recent photos of him almost never turn up on the Internet, including Instagram and Facebook.  And when they do, they seem to disappear immediately.

On the other hand Sir Paul McCartney has been seen everywhere over the last few years. He is a regular, both announced and unannounced on Saturday Night Live, most recently popping up alongside Bruce Springsteen this past December. Paul has done benefit concerts for causes he believes in here in the U.S. and in England, and has appeared on countless tv shows.  He has also collaborated with other artists, but unlike John, he does so with a bit of fanfare. It is rumored that this reunion was his idea, and that he has been all for it for years.

We all breathed a communal sigh of relief when George Harrison survived his terrible bout with lung cancer in 2001.  This left his voice a bit rough, but he is in good health now, crediting both alternative and modern therapies for his recovery.  "I sound a bit like a cross between Bobby Dylan and bullfrog," he was quoted as saying in 2010 when asked why he no longer tours.  But his son Dhani sounds remarkably like a young George and will be filling in the harmonies, and possibly some of the guitar work as well on the upcoming tour.  As for getting the rest of the band to adopt his vegan lifestyle, only Paul is on board with that.

"I finally have some actual stars in my all-star band!"  Ringo Starr has clearly been the most active of the four, touring constantly, and is thrilled about the reunion.  It's no secret that he has collaborated with each of the Beatles since they disbanded in 1970, and has pure, unbridled enthusiasm for this project. He is bringing some of the back up players to this band, though at this time, the line up is not set.

BEATLEMANIA:

For those who missed it the first time, you are experiencing real live Beatlemania  and it is great.  From middle school book bags and lunch boxes, to high school iPods.  From collectors paying exorbitant amounts of cash for original vinyl to record breaking numbers of Beatles downloads. Even club music, which was once the mindless thumping of sound-alike electronica has rediscovered the Beatles.  And those of us of a certain generation cannot stop smiling, hearing music that makes us feel joy when we recognize that song from the first two notes.  

I know that when we see these four "Lads from Liverpool" on stage, they will look like tiny specks, and we will have to watch them on the big screen from who knows where in a football stadium.  But I can't wait. I know all the Facebook groups will be guessing the set lists already, and getting tickets will be madhouse.  And lets not even start with the scalpers.  

For now, lets just enjoy the moment.  

By United Press International (UPI Telephoto)

Good-bye Starman

Click here for some music to set the tone for this blog.

Yesterday, it rained all day. I went to work in the rain. Came home in the rain.  Took a nap in the rain and woke up listening to the rain on my roof. 

I didn't realize the skies were crying. 

Suddenly, my son came in, knowing it was perfectly okay to wake me up for a rainbow. And what a brilliant one it was.  Little did I know, it was the most elegant chameleon saying good-bye. 

The first song I ever heard by David Bowie was when someone performed "Changes" in a talent show during my Freshman year of High School.  I thought 2 things.  She's great... how come we didn't know this girl could sing all through middle school?  And WHERE DID THIS SONG COME FROM??? Back then you didn't look it up on iTunes, or Google it.  I asked her afterwards, and she told me it was David Bowie.  I went and got the 45 immediately. 

I first heard David Bowie live in concert in 1975.  He was touring to promote the "Young Americans" album, which I didn't even own yet. But the songs were getting a lot of airplay, and when a group of kids at school asked if I wanted to go to Madison Square Garden, I had only been there once before, and it was all very exciting.   My crush on the way in to NYC  became my boyfriend on the way home.  I realized there was more to life than "Just and Old Fashioned Love Song*." My parents had let me go into New York City with my friends, I made it home alive, and I grew up a little that night.

My musical horizons were opening.  Billy Joel and Beach Boys were giving way to the The Who, Paul McCartney's solo stuff, and I was even  re-discovering the Beatles, as people tend to do when they get a really good pair of headphones for the first time. 

But then, in 1976, along came David Bowie's Station to Station Album. 

When he came back to play  at  MSG, I was the one who said to my friends that we should buy tickets.  My boyfriend was already moving on to the next big thing, which I believe was Peter Frampton at our high school.  But we went to the concert.  And I was transfixed.  Transformed.  If you don't know this album, play it (like an album, please, in order).  

I understood "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," and "God Only Knows What I'd be Without You."  Yes, of course. These made sense to a fifteen year old.  But "Wild is the Wind?" WHOA.  Love isn't simple. Love is messy.  Love is complicated.  David Bowie was talking about something I was just on the verge of understanding. (I was, after all, now a sixteen-year-old.)

On the bus ride home, my boyfriend said, "You know, he likes girls AND boys."  I did know that, and said something like, "So?"  I remember my boyfriend looking at me with a mixture of disgust and incredulity.

Not long after that we were in his car and I found the hand cream of another girl.  Even at the tender age of 16 love was messy and complicated. 

I went home and played Station to Station with my headphones on.   In fact, as the melodramatic teen-aged girl that I was, I repeated this ritual every single day.  I still can't hear TVC15 without thinking of Jim** and my newly broken heart. 

David Bowie didn't come out in platform shoes during those shows. He didn't wear make-up or an extreme haircut.  He had on a stylish suit and sang songs that touched my soul.  I remember saying even then to probably no one that he was ahead of his time.

His music has had the power to make me feel: happy, sad, energized, strengthened.  With words I understood, but concepts I sometimes had to struggle with.  Different genres on a single album.  Superior musicianship, and outstanding partnerships.  And of course, excellent showmanship.  Just three days ago, on his birthday, I watched a special called Storytellers, where David Bowie told the tales behind some of his most popular songs, and some obscure ones as well.  It was a delight.  As I watched, I wondered, not for the first time in the last year, why he's been so quiet.

The outpouring of love for him on social media is heartwarming.  I know I for one will miss him always.  And will always consider him my first grown-up love.

Good-bye Starman.

*A classic by 3 Dog Night, and not a bad song.  Just wildly over-played at the time. Click here to hear it.  Or don't.
**Jim was not his real name.  
Click here to get to the New York Times article and obituary.

Thank you to Adam Barr, my brother-in-law, for posting this and giving me a real laugh...David Bowie shows his humorous side...
Click here to end with a laugh.

The First (and only) Noel

A True Story.

I have never had Christmas envy.  

Growing up in a Jewish home, we celebrated all the Jewish and American holidays in full style.  We have enjoyed each at its given time, with the proper full table and decorations.  As a little girl, I never dreamed of waking up to see what Santa might have left me, I knew that was for the other kids.  I was happy with my eight nights of Hanukkah, my gelt and dreidels and latkes and knowing I was that anomaly at school who didn't blend in.  

But... one year... things were different.

It was 1969.  That year, my family had moved from Newton Centre, Massachusetts to Cherry Hill, NJ. Shortly after we moved in, we watched with amazement as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. I went from not understanding Red Sox fever to not understanding Mets fever.  (AGAIN with the kids and their transistor radios!)

I was in 4th grade, and my little brother Geoffrey was in 1st. Of COURSE we walked to school, and it was quite a hike.  As we walked along, we met up with our neighbors and friends.  We made friends quickly and summer turned to fall turned to winter.

I remember one very cold and slightly snowy morning, and our usual friends were sparse.  As we approached the "major" intersection where the crossing guard usually protected us from the dozen or so suburban cars, who slowly made their way toward the school, we saw she was not there.  Being the big sister, I took my little brother by the hand when the light turned green.  We boldly crossed, me feeling proud and accomplished.  When we arrived, unscathed at the school, we found, to our delight, it was a snow day!  Our small group turned around and trudged back home, through the inch and a half of accumulated snow, most likely to my mother's chagrin. 

As was the norm back then, the school was decorated beautifully. As you walked into the lobby, there was a huge Christmas tree, and it made the foyer smell great.  The tree had ornaments and lights, and back in those days, that metallic tinsel that came in single shreds. The lobby had other decorations as did every hallway and classroom.  The school was positively festooned with Christmas decorations. 

Was there the obligatory menorah in the lobby?  I doubt it.  Did one or two teachers hang up some Hanukkah decorations?  Maybe. Was there a Kwanzaa candelabra up?  There wasn't even Kwanzaa yet. I don't know what other parents told their children, but I just knew it wasn't my holiday.  I knew when I got home there would be my holiday waiting for me... and it was okay. 

And then, it was time for Christmas vacation.  The school did what they had always done, they entered every child's name into the raffle to see who would get to bring the giant Christmas tree home.  They did not ask who wanted to enter.  They did not consider who might not want a tree, or who might already have one.  And little Juliet Cantor, one of a handful of Jewish children in the school won that Christmas tree.

I didn't think for a second to argue with the principal of the school, or turn down this tree.  At 9 years old, I had not yet even considered standing up to authority, and it was true, we didn't have one...

So.

There I was. 

At 3:30 on a snowy afternoon at the beginning of Christmas break with a giant naked pine tree. 

To my surprise (and probably dismay) winning the Christmas tree did not mean winning any of the lights, ornaments or that pretty tinsel.  The custodians had made quick work of that while we were in our last classes of the afternoon.

I rounded up my friends, which included my boyfriend Andy and his best friend Paul (both Jewish) and little Geoffrey (we let him carry the top of the tree, since he was only 6).  And the four of us schlepped

this thing all the way home. 

As a parent... I can't imagine what I would do if any of my kids EVER came home with a Christmas tree.  But I can tell you what mine did. 

They let me keep it.

My dad configured some kind of stand for it in our den.  And I was allowed to make decorations for it... origami and snowflakes... and we admired it.  Since we didn't know about watering it, it dried out nicely, dropping its needles all over the place.  My cousin happened to be visiting and he taught me to draw a perfect 5-point star and we colored them in, punched holes, used Mom's yarn to make loops, and hung them up on the tree. Then we taught Geoffrey how to draw Stars of David, as I had just learned in Hebrew school, and did the same with them.  We did not see the irony.  

When Christmas came, there were no presents under that tree.  We didn't hang stockings with care, or leave cookies for Santa.  But for one year, we had that intoxicating scent of pine wafting through the house.  After that, my dad took it outside, chopped it up, and let it dry, and we used it for firewood.  It smelled wonderful in the fireplace.

It's funny to think of it now.  A Christmas tree in our house.  My parents acting like it's no big thing.  And because they acted that way, it wasn't. (Although I did ask if we could buy tinsel and lights, and they said no.) 

When I reminded them of this story, family lore at this point, I asked them if there were photos I could use to enhance the blog. They both looked, but, not surprisingly, there were no photos to be found.

Since that time, we've always enjoyed Christmas as guests, celebrating with others. Enjoying their traditions, foods, stories, and Christmas trees.  And definitely the music.   But that one year was the beginning and end of Noel in our house.

The author, as artistically  "elfed" by @pawhite. 

To read more of my Jewish blogs about Christmas, click on these links:

http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2013/12/why-theres-plaster-jesus-in-my-basement.html



http://myso-calledblogat.blogspot.com/2011/12/in-memory-of-friend-at-christmas.html

Family Dinner

Since 1987, when my husband Michael and I packed up our baby son and drove from San Francisco, across the United States to live back in the great state of New Jersey... we have had a tradition of the Family Dinner with my parents.

At first, it was just natural.  We lived in their house while we were looking for a new home, so every night was family dinner.  Actually what I remember most was keeping my two cats locked upstairs in what used to be a playroom (now my mother's art studio) and our beloved 5:00 cocktail hour when my husband and my dad would both come home from work and we would meet in the kitchen for martinis and laughs about the day with our  joyful toddler Zachary bouncing from one person's arms to the next.

Soon we were in our own home, with our daughter Maddie joining the family; my brother had moved to the area as well soon to start a family of his own. Family dinners were usually on Sunday nights.  We chose places which were kid friendly.  I remember that Chinese food was a favorite of ours.  There was also a deli we loved.  We had a pizza place we adored, and it was there, a few years later,  having pizza and a great antipasto when we got the phone call that my niece Talia was born!

We meet and share the news the of the week.  New jobs, new boyfriends and girlfriends (the kids, not the adults... don't worry!), house troubles.  The snow.  The rain. The hurricane.  If the weather is terrible we meet for dinner.  If the weather is great... we meet for dinner.  We bring sad news, and we bring great news.  Heavy news and frivolity.  We laugh and we  are sometimes loud. We sometimes change seats before dessert.  We sing Happy Birthday in Hebrew.  Jacob and Ben, the same age, would sword-fight with tooth-picks when they were little.  Then, in the blink of an eye, they were already in the "sneak-texting" phase!

And before we knew it, our first was grown and off to college, and the reservation was for 10 and not 11 anymore.   And more often than not, the kids had things to do, rehearsals, social engagements, homework.   And just this September, the last grandchild, little Talia went to college.  Family dinner is just six of us, my parents, my brother and his wife, my husband and me.

We went out to dinner last night.

My brother chose sushi, because it was his birthday... 5 days ago.

As we order I think about all the years of the family dinners.  My husband isn't here because of work. The kids are all off, three are in college, two of mine are already through with school and on their own. October has been a rough month for me and I am somewhat pensive.

My parents are through with the menu and my sister-in-law and I are ready to order.

My brother pours some sake into his glass while we wait for the waitress.

He starts a story.

"When I was in London, sushi was very rare."
"Too bad," Dad says, not missing a beat, "because it should have been raw!"

While we are laughing over this I get a text.  As impolite as it is, I secretly check my phone at the dinner table.  It's a photo of my three kids.

They are having family dinner at my daughter's house tonight in Cambridge.  They know I love a good selfie, so they sent it to me before they cleaned up the dishes.

I see they sent it to my husband who clumsily tries to send back a smiley but sends the angry face emoji by mistake.

I smile, and I hear myself laugh.  I look up and see my brother has caught me "sneak-texting" on my phone.  I slip it back in my pocket.

Surrounded by love, I get back to the family dinner. (Insert happy emoji here.)

Hashtag GD 50

Did you hear that?

Yes, it's a collective sigh of relief.  Deadheads woke up on Monday, July 6 and the world seemed to still be turning on its axis even though presumably we said "fare thee well" to the boys the night before in a dramatic swan-song stroll down memory lane which was either seven months or 50 years in the making.

This guitar was later auctioned off to benefit the Rex Foundation.

Even so, still today, over two weeks later people are still posting a few more pictures on Instagram. Still tweeting out a few more clever song lyrics will make us all "favorite" it and retweet it to our own favorite Deadheads.  Facebook is still going strong with people's videos, and newspaper articles, bios, set lists, and a few late concert reviews.  Everyday is hashtag throw back whatever... and I have a feeling we haven't seen the end of it.  Being a Deadhead has become so mainstream, even the police cars in the San Francisco Bay Area have little stealies on them.

Yes, pretty mainstream, I'd say.

How were the shows?

This is not a review of the concerts, you can get that anywhere. I thought that all five were great.  The saga of my getting, or more precisely, not getting tickets aside*, the California scene was great, and I wish I could have enjoyed the Chicago scene as well, but it was not in the cards for me. If they had played another weekend in New York (or NJ) I believe they could have sold that out too. But frankly I'm not sure I could have handled the drama.  I read in one of the reviews that for many Deadheads, these will be their last stadium shows.  That is certainly true for me**.  The profound number of people was just staggering. All those humans!  Spending that much on parking, food, and beverages. $13 for undrinkable beer!!! Eternal lines at the concession stands and bathrooms.  My son said "Mom, stadium shows are a young man's game," as he left me in section 413 and deftly made his way almost to the floor for the entirety of Sunday's Santa Clara show.  So, it is "Fare Thee Well" to one thing... and that is humongous stadium shows and me ever touching a Bud Lite again!

  

But getting back to the shows themselves... I loved them all.   They were interesting... they were eclectic...mistakes were made and corrected... they were perfect in their imperfection.  The first show in California featured obscure rarities that only true Deadheads would grok.   July 3rds show in Chicago was all original Grateful Dead songs (no covers).  Only two repeats in the entire five nights (Cumberland Blues and Truckin')!!  The set lists were artfully created and flowed together***.  The drum solos boomed and shook like old times.  Fireworks lit up the sky and even the Empire State Building joined the fun.   We sang along and we laughed and cried.  We missed Jerry and yet we felt him there.  We hugged our friends and we really did stop strangers just to shake their hands.  Maybe we hugged them too.

And what about Jerry?

Unbelievably, Jerry has been gone 20 years next month, and it's obvious that the music hasn't stopped and never will. To those who continue to say things like, "well he doesn't play it like Jerry," or "he just doesn't sound like Jerry," I say once and for all THAT'S RIGHT! And no one ever will.  If you want to hear Jerry, play one of the thousands of hours of unbelievable musical gifts he left us.  If you want to hear some guys who come pretty close to playing and sounding just like Jerry, check out John Kadlecik or Jeff Mattson.  But it's really time to quit whining.  Nothing's gonna bring him back.

An impromptu tribute to the man we were missing.
Sunday's show included a moment of silence, and they showed photos of all those members of the band and crew who had died.  It was very touching.

And what about Trey?
From the first announcements until the last bow, that grinning ginger has been in the Deadhead limelight.   Any writer who had the audacity to call him "the new Jerry" or say he "took Jerry's place" is a piker who didn't do his homework. But Trey's guitar playing was top notch, and his voice is his own.  And did he look like he was having fun or what???  I still will not become a Phish fan anytime soon, but I was happy with the sound, the vibe and the energy that I saw and heard onstage.

I found this on Instagram and it cracked me up!

Peter Shapiro: God or Grinch
Peter Shapiro, the impresario of  my favorite local music venue, The Capitol Theatre, and it's super cool little brother, Garcia's, has become the modern day Bill Graham.  A Deadhead who made this happen and tried to do the right thing along the way.   A lot of people don't like him, and I've read some downright ugly things about him, but hey, he pulled off the whole shindig, and has been bringing us amazing shows.  And like him or don't, but the truth is it's never okay to slander someone, or use the anti-Semitic language I have read when referring to him or to anyone.  I can't consider people who hide behind names like Kosmyk Charl-E and spew hate the true Deadheads. 


So now what?

Is the music really going to stop now? Don't be silly. As of this moment I have tickets in hand (well, not in hand, or how would I be typing?) to see Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, and Billy Kreutzmann, all before the end of the year!  Does that sound like #faretheewell???  It's news to basically NO ONE that Bob Weir is planning a tour with John Mayer, Mickey and Billy.  There's a renewed interest in the Grateful Dead that we haven't seen in years.  (I'm not even sure I like it, to be honest!)  There are rumors of another GD tour! (Again, see **)  In the meantime if you are in the mood for some good old Grateful Dead music and you want it live and local, check out this website http://gratefuldeadtributebands.com/.  You can support local talent and get nice and close to the stage too!

My relationship with the Grateful Dead has had a lot of ups and downs over the last seven months. I'm ready to ease back in to my comfortable routine of normal obsession now and focus on the rest of my life with balance and clarity.  The music of the Grateful Dead will continue to move and inspire me, and I will continue to pay ridiculous prices to see "the Core Four" play as long as they continue to play, either apart, or, if we are so lucky, together.  


I'll leave you with this gorgeous gem.  You may have seen it already, but enjoy it again.  Ripple video - Playing for Change

My son and me, right after we found our seats in Levi's stadium, about an hour pre-show.

Our mini-tailgate in one of the massive lots in Santa Clara.

*You can read about that in this blog.
**Unless they "surprise us" and announce more shows... check out this article!
*** Okay, so you know what? I bet  we all have our personal comments about the set lists.  I myself may have said "It's too soon for Standing on the Moon.  And BOB should be singing it!" But let's keep it positive, eh folks?

All About a Barbie

I had the unfortunate experience to find myself in the mall a few weeks ago on my one precious afternoon off.  Apparently, after the age of 45, the punishment for myopia is either wearing reading glasses over your contact lenses, or wearing complicated eyeglasses.  If you don’t know what I am talking about, take a walk to the closest CVS and try on a pair of readers and it will all become very clear.

Anyway, my complicated glasses needed to be adjusted before the Seder, as they were so scratched, I literally could not see the words in the Hagaddah.  I was seated next to a bespectacled mother and her adorable son, who was clutching a bag from the Disney Store. He was begging her to play with his new Anna doll. 

In a hushed voice she suggested, “How about Olaf instead?”

“No, Mommy.  I want to play with Anna!”

“I told you, not until we are in the car.”

“But Mommy, why can I play with Olaf here and not with Anna?”

Now, the little boy is not having a fit, he’s just asking, but the mother is getting that panicky look on her face.  She glances at me, and shoots me that “I’m so sorry” look, and I can see she’s mortified.  I try to come up with an “I understand look,” but I’m not sure she sees me; she’s trying so hard to diffuse her “situation.”  The situation of her little boy wanting to play with a doll. 

When someone finally comes out to wait on us at the glasses repair counter, I offer to let them go ahead of me, but mom decides to take her son out of the store rather than have a scene.

As I wait while they work their magic (aka change the lenses and charge me accordingly)… I think about the playthings I had for my own children. 

Before we even had children, my husband and I had a lot of discussions about how to be as parents.  One of the biggies was no toy weapons in the house. I didn't get much push-back from my husband, though growing up, he and his brother had a bee-bee gun.  He also had some pretty terrible stories about that gun (and bee-bees in the ears) so he was fine with that.  (He had a much harder time with the “let’s go with only cloth diapers” conversation.)

And then we had our first baby.  David was beautiful, perfect little boy.  We filled his room with toys.  No weapons ever came into the house.  Ah, see how easy that is?  Our little house was filled with art toys and building toys and musical instruments. Stuffed animals and train sets.  Trucks and dinosaurs. 

When we learned that I was pregnant again, we got little David a Cabbage Patch doll so he could attend a “big brother” class, and there he learned about changing diapers, feeding with a bottle, and giving babies a bath.  When the class was over, he got a sticker that said he was a prepared big brother, and he barely played with the doll again.

When David was 3 ½ along came his sister, Emily.  He was doting and loving.  None of the typical jealousy that you hear about.  He “read” to her from his favorite books (which he had memorized) and helped pick out what she should wear.   As Emily grew, we stood by our “no weapons” rule with ease.  She was more into the art kits and the stuffed animals, and David, though not the greatest sharer, was always happy to play with her.

One day after a playdate with David’s two best friends, twin girls from pre-school, he came home and asked if I’d buy him a Barbie doll. I was a bit taken aback, and let it go.  I had never been allowed to have a Barbie, I am not into the whole Barbie thing as an adult.  I just don’t think it is a good image for women.  AND let’s face it,  David is a boy.  A few weeks later, David who is only about 4 now, tries a different angle with me.  He suggests that Emily (6 months old) might like a Barbie, because little girls like that.

The next time he has his playdate at the twins’ house, I go and hang out with their mom, who is also nursing a new baby.  We smile as the three kids are playing dress-up together.  And then they are playing Barbie dolls.  For Hanukkah, David’s babysitter asks if she can get him a Barbie, he wants one so much.  I say okay, but get a Ken too.   He is thrilled.  I even make her some clothes on my sewing machine.   Ken’s hands get chewed up by the dog, having been left lying on the floor.

Poor Ken.

Three and a half years later, and we welcome Samuel.  Born on Shavuot, and a gift to our family.  He’s our wild child from day one.  This little guy starts climbing out of his crib and running by 9 months. When David meticulously builds the Brio Train into a majestic web of intertwined tracks, and Emily builds the town center around the veterinary clinic, Sam bull-dozes it with a truck in each hand.  When David builds the marble machine to perfection and Emily times the red marble against the blue one, Sam knocks the whole thing down with the leg of the teddy bear she has just had me sew, and has put a “cast” on.   Sticker books are taken apart, and Sam is covered with Emily’s animal stickers.  David’s school projects are kept up on the mantle of the fire place or on his top bunk bed.  Child-proof gates at the stairs are a joke, more of a barrier for our poor dog than a deterrent for Sam.

But the kicker?  Everything… EVERYTHING has become a weapon.  The snorkel from last summer is a sword.  The hammer from the little workshop is a, well I don’t even know what, but it went everywhere with him.  Every tree branch is a gun or knife.   He gravitated to the Lego sets that had the pirates, or the knights.  And somehow the videos that were once benign Disney videos to the other two suddenly suggest violence to Sam.  He wore a cape every day.  (I had to send him to daycare with a dishtowel tucked in to the back of his shirt or he wouldn't get in the car.)

And then it happened.  My mother-in-law sent Sam, a cowboy gun and holster for his 3^rd birthday.  After that I said yes when my husband wanted to get the costume with the plastic sword and I tried to hide the gun. When Sam played, he put on armor.  Sometimes he got others to join in. Sometimes he just pretended by himself for hours.  As he got older he pretended with little figures.  They’d work out their battles.  They’d fight.  Sometimes little guys would die.  Then they’d get back up again and fight some more. I was more than a little worried about this streak in him, as I had never seen it in my other two children.

Do they even make these anymore??

And we suddenly we had weapons in the house. And more than that.  We had the Lego Pirate Ship. We had the Playmobile soldiers fort.  The Mystic Knights.  Zorro. We had costumes. Battle ships. Videos. 

So what happened to these two little boys and their sister?

Turns out, David is gay.  But that Barbie doll didn’t make him gay.  And letting him play the way he needed to play with no judgement on him undoubtedly allowed him to feel safe, at least at home.  Even at that young age, he identified that it was a “girl’s toy” but he liked it.   He is a teacher, and is deeply dedicated to his work.  His students love him and he makes a difference every day.

Sam is a gentle, peaceful soul. In fact he is a volunteer for Ultimate Peace, a Frisbee Camp in Israel that teaches Israeli Jewish and Palestinian children to work out their differences on the playing field.  Still in college, the only sword is wields is his wit.  He is one of those few people his age that can relate to children, teens, peers and adults. 

And their sister?  Well, Emily did not actually pursue becoming a veterinarian, despite the hints above.  One summer she interned in vet’s office and was so turned off, she changed direction.  She now works for a company that helps people afford solar heating for their homes.  This is her passion, and I kvell to see her thriving in a living that makes the world a better place.

So, did I have to change my direction? Yes. I learned that a child needs to play.  I decided not to put a limit on play, as long as no one was getting hurt.  I may not have quite understood what was happening, but whatever it was, they needed to get out through play.

I also learned that they charge a ridiculous amount for eyeglasses and for the Anna and Olaf dolls. And if your son would rather play with Anna or Elsa, it’s going to be okay.

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.