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Faded Memories
By Emily Kapit
My childhood home does not stand out from the surrounding houses; in fact, the ranch-style, brown brick structure almost fades into the surrounding flora, and is nearly swallowed up by the larger two-floor homes sharing the dead-end street. That being said, and given the fact that I spent my entire childhood growing up there, nearly every inch of my parents’ property is crawling with memories.
I was reminded of this on a recent trip home. In the two years since I last set foot through the door, I’d gone through significant life changes, including: getting married, moving to a new part of the country, finishing grad school and, simply stated, growing up. Yet, as my husband drove down the road towards my house, the floodgates opened and memories washed over me. We passed the street where I cheered my brothers on during endless games of stickball (a game of skill, none of which I possess). We passed the creek that separated our property from our neighbors’, Where everything became a dense jungle, a death-defying obstacle course or whatever else my imagination demanded.  We passed the lawn with its daunting hill which taunted me as I agonized over pushing the lawn mower up and down, left and right (see previous column here).
Jon pulled in behind my old “high school ride” and while the car itself looked exactly the same, the clever bumper sticker (and reminder) my mother placed on the rear bumper had faded into illegibility. “How else will people know the importance of being nice to your kids?” I thought while opening the door to our car. “They’ll pick your nursing home.” I never did understand why my mother put the sticker there but the words do ring true.
As I neared the front door, a warm April sunburst peaked through the clouds and glinted off the stained-glass windows in the dining room. I’d once asked my father why he chose those windows, with their unique iconography:
“Em”, he said, “the Star of David and menorah remind us of who we are, especially when we’re so few in numbers. The cornucopia of fruits and vegetables remind us that wherever we are, our lives should be full and plentiful.”
Neither before nor since has my doctor father sounded so much like…a rabbi.
As I passed through the front door, the memories only increased in number and depth. A quick glance down the hall and I could see the doorways to the back bedrooms, all three of which I occupied at some point. I thought about heading into my most recent bedroom but stopped short, remembering that I was actually there for a reason (to grab a bowl for my dog) and besides – my mother had changed it into a guest room. That room was not my own anymore; its contents of my teenage years had long been moved or thrown away. Walking back in to my bedroom might forever shift the images in my brain, possibly trashing the contents included therein.
Instead, I headed towards the kitchen, and aimed straight for the cupboard where I knew my mother had kept the plastic bowls for years. They were still there but I barely remember reaching for them. Instead, I felt myself drowning in memories from over eighteen years worth of family dinners at that kitchen table, the one where we gathered every night at 7:30 on the dot, milk in our cups and a meat, starch, and vegetable waiting to be devoured on each plate.
I stopped for a moment, one hand grasping a bowl while the rest of me stood paralyzed. In the blink of an eye, there we were, sharing stories from our day, hearing about the latest sporting events, discussing crazy family antics and, occasionally, engaging in a food fight. I saw it all, and then, in the blink of an eye, my entire childhood disappeared.
I shuttered myself “awake” again, grabbed the bowl and headed back outside. Shaking my head, I was surprised that being on my childhood property for a mere thirty seconds could bring forth such a rush of memories. Though my parents’ house may physically blend in with the background, it’s comforting to know my memories clearly stand out against the test of time.
One day, my parents will choose to sell that brown-brick, ranch style house. The movers will remove a lifetime worth of “stuff,” and my parents will take with them them the physical contents they either deem important enough to keep or otherwise give away. I, on the other hand, have already left that place, taking exactly what I need: memories from a home, sweet home, ones that I’ll put towards building one OF my own. I may not ever have a stained glass window depicting a Star of David, menorah, and woven basket of produce, but I will remember that wherever I am, my home shall hopefully be full and the love within its walls plentiful.
Read more posts from Issue 12: Aliyah – Going Home.
Photo by Pyoakum, licensed under Creative Commons
My Father's Name was Lewis Lander
By Ian Lander
My father’s name was Lewis Lander. He sometimes went by “Big Lew the Jew from Avenue U.” This nickname was self-applied, even though he was not from Avenue U, and was admittedly only “a majestic five foot seven on a good day.” He was, however, a Jew. He rarely attended synagogue, and was comparatively unfamiliar with religious practices. I think his Judaism came out in his sense of humor. He used it as a way to view the world and deal with the absurdity of life that he recognized all too well.
One Jewish tradition that he did observe was leading Passover Seder in our home. When it came time to do hand washing, he would say, “Now please join me in washing,” and then spit air into each hand and clap, rubbing them together. That’s how we knew it was time to eat.
When my mother told him she was pregnant with their first child (me), he looked at her with wide-eyed excitement and said, “You mean I’m going to have a brother?” Once he had children, they of course had to have nicknames. I was lovingly named “Thornbush,” undoubtedly a nod to my warm and cuddly demeanor.
My dad had a way of remaining funny while dishing out biting criticism or complaint. I remember going with him to a diner where he thought we had waited too long to order. He stopped a waitress to ask her if there was some sort of secret password that he didn’t know to get service. All I could do was sink down in my chair and be glad that it wasn’t directed at me.
He recognized comedic genius in others too, even if it was unintentional. There was his never published book, “Mangled Idioms,” a collection of mis-sayings by his sister-in-law. “You can’t kick a dead horse in the mouth” remains a favorite of mine. A chicken scratched rough draft remains in the bottom drawer of my mother’s dresser.
God, did he have fun with my mother. There was a period where he was calling her “New York,” paying homage to his beloved TV show “Flavor of Love.” He could always spin it when my mom got mad, saying that New York was Flav’s favorite woman, as she was his.
Big Lew was also willing, once in a while, to make himself the butt of the joke. One day I came home to find him out in the street playing catch with my brother and wearing a humongous “R.I.P. Tupac Shakur” T-shirt.
He would say things like, “Don’t you know I’m challenged?” when he’d spill food on himself or forget to do something important. He called himself “Homer.” In this way, he used humor to cope with his own shortcomings and problems, some of which were quite serious.
I have a lot of my father in me, for which I must laugh to keep from crying. When we buried him two years ago, there was a long silence after the earth was filled in. Eventually uncomfortable, I broke it by shouting, “All right, who’s hungry?” Those who knew us well enough laughed with me, and we started back home.
I miss Big Lew terribly. I’ll remember him and laugh through my tears every time I spit wash before eating Pesach dinner.
Photo by Kevygee, licensed under Creative Commons.
Read more posts from Issue 09: “What’s So Funny.”
The Set Up
By Ari Averbach
The funniest, most inherently Jewish joke that I have ever heard is one that was never intended to be funny. It stems from deep within our Jewish roots, from a place we all know and feel. And we only laugh at the joke because our only other option is to cry at our loneliness and the humiliation of being set up with another complete mismatch. Here’s the classic joke. The line that kills every time. The epitome of modern Jewish humor – “I know the perfect person for you.”
Being 26 and single (like REALLY single) is fine. Not ideal, but fine. I work with all Jewish women, I make regular guest appearances at my mom’s school where all the teachers are Jewish women, and I’m very involved in my community. You could only imagine the harassment I get. I take in stride, I take it as a compliment. Sometimes, the one setting me up says such nice things about me that I find myself interested in meeting this version of me. But the truth is that I’m nice, I do lots of charity work, I have some good qualities. Super. Everyone assumes that since I am single I am looking to be set up. (Well, until someone brings up the Richard Simmons story and then they think I’m gay, which is also fine but not true and even then they have someone for me.)
Just this week, I got a call from a teacher at my mom’s school. “Ari, will you do me a favor?” Mind you, I have never met this teacher before in my life, but that’s okay.
“Sure. What do you need?”
She then explained the favor – something humiliating but fun involving a cape, a mask and her kindergarten class.
“Yeah, that sounds like fun.”
Here it comes. I can feel it.
“Great. See you Thursday. Oh, and I have a daughter. She’s gorgeous. I’ll show you a picture. She’s single. She’s in college. She’s a real knock-out. She’s perfect for you.”
Choke. Wow. Really?
“Great. I’ll see you Thursday.”
(Side note: Never saw a picture of the daughter. I’ll be okay.)
The last time someone set me up with “the perfect person for me.” I could tell it would end poorly before it even began. But how can I turn down a “she’s perfect for you” when I’m single? Then I’ll get barraged with, “this could have been the one and you turned her down because you didn’t like her Facebook profile? This is why you’re single.”
I have been set up with girls who are married, lesbians, shomer neggiah, and live thousands of miles away. All of them were “a perfect match.” I think since the days of the shadchan being the center of a Jewish society, matchmaking has been an art form that everyone thinks they have. It’s somehow engrained in us. But this is the divine comedy. While some of these shidduchs turn out well, most just make for great stories with friends.
I’ll end with my favorite one.
“Ari, I have the perfect girl for you,” two separate people told me.
Fine, I’ll meet her. Why not?
During our (already awkward) first encounter, one of our matchmakers lets out this gem: “By the way, did you know that you two are cousins?”
Forget Woody Allen, Jerry Seinfeld, Mel Brooks – anyone else that we consider a Jewish comedian. This is the real hilarity.
Photo by emanuxa, licensed under Creative Commons
Read more posts from Issue 09: “What’s So Funny.”
To Mom With Love
By Ruth Bregman
My mom, Margie, was in her forties when I was born, very unusual for those times. So she was much older than all of my friends’ mothers. I clearly remember when she began to be forgetful. It happened shortly after my father died – they had adored each other and she just couldn’t deal well with living alone.
The forgetfulness started when she was in her late eighties. At first it was an occasional lapse, but gradually became more pronounced. Finally, my mom’s doctor made it a reality. He diagnosed her with dementia, probably Alzheimer’s.
I was forced to face the truth and deal with the many problems that followed. Almost immediately, she began a long stay in the hospital due to a serious lapse of memory, her decreasing ability to deal well with reality, occasional hallucinations, and her need to begin medication and to have it regulated properly. But when the time came for her to leave the hospital, I had to argue with the hospital social work staff and administrators who insisted that she belonged in a nursing home. I refused because I knew she wouldn’t do well in a nursing home, and I had also promised my dad never to allow that to happen.
I won that fight and was able to take her back to her apartment on the Lower East Side, but it meant hiring 24-hour aides to “ensure her safety.” My mom adjusted to the aides, and had a complete personality change which often comes with this disease. She became extremely attached to me and also more demonstrative as the dementia increased. This was not what I’d been accustomed to growing up, and proved to require a big adjustment on my part. However, it also proved to be an unexpectedly positive change. It was actually very nice to be hugged and kissed whenever I came over to visit.
Watching over her was a big responsibility. I had to check up on her and the aides every day at first, gradually cutting back to three to four times per week, and eventually (at the insistence of my friends) two to three times per week. Before I realized what was happening, my life consisted of full-time work, telephone calls to mom twice a day, and visits to her, which seemed to make her happy. Then there were trips to the cleaners, laundry to be done, grocery shopping, picking up prescriptions and distributing them in weekly dose containers, and all the other tasks that needed to be taken care of for her.
Mom’s health deteriorated with time, and after three more years at home she passed away in her own apartment. It was not unexpected, but still a shock. The funeral was small, with only the rabbi, family, and her aides (who had grown to love her) attending. In her nineties, when she died, she didn’t have many friends who were still alive and well enough to come to the graveside burial.
It took over two months for me to stop picking up the telephone to call my mom to say hello. And it took almost as long for me to feel comfortable planning outings with my friends and family after being unavailable for such a lengthy time. But it always made me feel gratified to have done the best I could for my mom in her final years, and to have been able to fulfill my promise to my dad not to put her into a nursing home. Maybe best of all, I had been the recipient of her outpouring of warmth and love over her last few years.
Finally, although it’s become much more common nowadays than it was when I was born, it makes me smile to think about the negative feelings many people have regarding “older people” who have babies and never live long enough to see them grow up. Boy, did my mom prove that theory wrong! She was able to see her only daughter and her two grandchildren become productive and happy adults.
Grave Recollection
By Isaac Shalev
CRUNCH.
“Shit!”
“Have some respect!”
“It’s not like they can hear me.”
It was late in the morning on Friday, I was driving in a graveyard, and I had just rammed my car into what I desperately hoped was not a tombstone, especially not anyone’s I knew. My wife, knitting quietly in passenger seat, was not amused by either our predicament or my remark. We had departed from the eulogy service for a relative of mine – a 90+ year-old, short, white-haired, gruff man named Shaya. He was my grandfather’s uncle, or maybe my grandfather was his uncle, or they were cousins once- or twice-removed. My grandmother had explained the genealogy to me countless times, but the relationships between all those faceless ghosts from Warsaw and Lublin was ephemeral, and I never remembered them. I always knew Shaya as the old man who used to talk to my dad in Yiddish and who was the patriarch of the only American relatives my Israeli immigrant family had in the United States. Whenever we met, he showed me the faded blue numbers burned into his arm and asked if I still remembered what they meant. I never forgot.
The only reason I’d even hit anything was because we had gotten separated from the funeral procession. I had no idea where we were going, and between fumbling with my phone, bluetooth, GPS, and looking every which way at once to try and find a burial party in the sprawling Montefiore Cemetery in Queens, I whacked what turned out to be a low white stone, one of many lining the paths between the graves. At least it wasn’t a tombstone.
I finally made it to the right spot, to the smell of fresh dirt on a spring day, and the finality of a hole, a pine box, and a shovel.
This is how we say goodbye.
When the last spadeful had been added to the mound that now rose up where a hole once was, when the last “Amen” of the Kaddish had been recited by Shaya’s daughter, and the last tear had been shed by his grandchildren, my father and I raised up our eyes and saw, not a stone’s throw away, the Ohel – the burial site of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. We paid a short visit, recited a quick Psalm, and returned to our cars. Even on a Friday, now past noon, pious Chabad Hassidim gathered in prayer and supplication. My family was not Lubavitch, and my father had never taken me to the Rebbe while he was alive to get a blessing and a dollar bill. But the Ohel was right there, right near Shaya’s grave, so that visiting the Rebbe just seemed like the thing to do. That Shaya, a Jew who never forgave God for the Holocaust, would find himself buried so close to the Rebbe, in a plot probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars (if not more) to the Rebbe’s followers, felt oddly meaningful, but I can’t say I understood exactly what it meant.
I got back to my car, and noticed, at last, the dent. It was in the the rear door on the driver’s side, and the corner of the door had bent into the frame of the car. It was a pretty nasty dent, but I felt strangely calm about it. Going to the funeral, honoring the dead, placing a rock on the headstone, these felt like important things to do, even if I didn’t feel it while I was doing them. If God wanted me to do a little body work to earn my role in the ancient rite, that was okay with me. I knew at the moment of impact that there was going to be a dent. I just didn’t know where I’d been hit.
…
Photo by Isaac Shalev.
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