?The Yomim Nora’im
(High Holidays) are an emotional time. In addition to being serious days of
judgment and an opportunity to examine ourselves and our behavior, for me it is
also a time to remember my parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunts, who have
moved on to the next world.
When I was a child, my family was
fortunate to live in close proximity to each other, allowing us to conveniently
gather together for chagim (holidays).
Before Rosh Hashanah, my grandpa (my mom’s dad) used to buy two rows of men’s
seats and one row of women’s to accommodate our family at Mishkan Israel (Rabbi
Yechiel Shoham’s shul) on Madison Avenue just above North Avenue. In those days,
that was a safe neighborhood, and lots of people walked to shul. On the High
Holidays even the Jews who weren’t shomer
Shabbos walked. Everyone dressed in their nicest clothes, and both men and
women wore hats.
Theodore R. McKeldin was the governor
of Maryland back then. He had previously been Baltimore’s mayor and would
eventually become mayor again. McKeldin was a very refined, upstanding, and
principled man. He supported civil rights for Blacks (when it wasn’t popular).
He was a friend of the Jews and Israel (also, not a particularly popular
political decision in the late 50s). The Jews loved him because he loved the
Jews, and he often quoted precepts from Tanach.
Prior to becoming Maryland’s governor, when McKeldin was Baltimore’s mayor, he
would occasionally stop by various shuls on Rosh Hashanah to greet the Jews and
wish them a leshana tova.
On Rosh Hashanah 1958, Governor
McKeldin was in Baltimore – not Annapolis. I have no idea why he visited a shul
about seven blocks away from Mishkan Israel (the name of which escapes me). I
guess that shul was a bit more prominent than our (minimalist) congregation,
which had hard splintered benches and spittoons at the end of each men’s row.
Unlike many Jewish men of that era, Governor
McKeldin always carried a kippa, thin
black satin, usually, and white satin for Rosh Hashanah. What was remarkable is
that McKeldin, a Republican, was able to win two consecutive terms as governor
and two non-consecutive terms as mayor. As a young man, he overcame hardship
and poverty, and eventually passed the bar exam, while working hard to help
support his mother and 10 brothers and sisters. Not only did he rise to the top
of Maryland politics, he also became a well known national personality when he
was chosen to give the nominating speech for General Dwight Eisenhower at the
Republican National Convention in Chicago, in 1952.
So, on that Rosh Hashanah in 1958, a
huge black Cadillac limousine, accompanied by two motorcycle police, pulled up
at the nearby shul. I was outside, visiting my friend Donny when I witnessed,
in amazement, the incredible sight. One of the members, upon seeing what I saw,
ran in to tell the rabbi. The rabbi paused the service and came out to greet
the Governor and accompanied him into the sanctuary. I followed, of course. Until
then, I had never experienced absolute silence in any shul. The white kippa-wearing governor was escorted to
the bimah. He apologized for
interrupting the service and said that, although he had visited larger and more
ornate shuls, that he loved this shul because it reminded him of the simple “house
of worship”’ (he didn’t say church) of his youth.
Governor McKeldin’s words were very
short but memorable, even for a fifth grader. The whole visit lasted maybe 8 to
10 minutes. As the Governor departed, everyone wanted to shake his hand. With
each handshake, he said, “G-d bless you – leshana
tova.” I ran outside again and
watched as his chauffeur, a state trooper, opened the back door of the big
limousine and the motorcycles powered up loudly with red lights flashing.
(There were no blue police lights in those days.)
Almost everyone was touched by
McKeldin’s visit. Naturally, there were cynics in the crowd who said, “He’s
using the shul’s captive audience as a campaign stop.” Nevertheless, most in
attendance felt honored by his visit. My grandpa, upon hearing about what
happened at the nearby shul became a bit emotional. I overheard him tell my
uncle that, having lived through pograms in the “old country” (Ukraine), he was
very impressed that a high government official came to greet Jews and wish them
well on one of our most holy of days.
In retrospect, I don’t think that
the Governor was visiting for political purposes, especially because there were
no press writers or photographers present. McKeldin was there, in my view, to
simply say leshana tova. Hard to
imagine such a menschlich gesture, or
even such a refined mensch, today.
Such a beautiful memory.
* * *
On Rosh Hashanah and Pesach, our
family gathered around my grandparents’ table for festive meals. As a child, I
loved the atmosphere and the wonderful food. My grandma was a great cook. Since
those were the days before anyone heard of healthy eating (and everyone,
including many doctors, smoked), there was lots of kishka, gribbonis (which
probably inspired the creation of Lipitor), kugels (noodle and potato), and
huge desserts, including boxes of Barton’s chocolates. I always got to the
chocolate-covered cherries before anyone else. One time, my Aunt Adel said, “If
you can get me a chocolate cherry, I’ll give you a quarter.” This was before I
(or anyone around me) knew that such trades weren’t “kosher” on Yontiff.
Naturally, I willingly made the trade. Since I loved my Aunt A (as she was
known), I said, “You don’t have to give me a quarter – this is a Rosh Hashanah
gift.” She hugged me and gave me 50 cents! A win/win for me!
Since almost everyone smoked back
then, after dinner, the men gathered in the living room and lit up. As a kid I
recall my grandfather explaining to the family that he remembered, from his
youth in the shetetl, that cigarettes, which were often in short supply, were a
treat on Yontiff. Unfortunately, in my family, the smokers didn’t know that to
light a Yontiff cigarette or cigar you needed an existing flame, and when you
were done, you couldn’t crush it out. Nevertheless, everyone knew that on Yom
Kippur there was neither food nor smoking allowed.
* * *
Everyone I knew, including me, was
grateful for close and extended family. The shadow of the aftermath of World
War II reminded those fortunate enough to have living relatives to appreciate
them. Nevertheless, every family had its weirdos – although we kids were taught
to have respect for them, too. That was great preparation for my adult life.
It was common back then, and not
thought of as an imposition, that many elderly parents were taken care of by
their children and lived out their final years in their children’s homes. My
father’s parents, Rose (Rochel) and Isaac (Yitzchok) moved into the second
floor of our home when I was four years old. Upstairs, there was a kitchen,
bathroom, bedroom, and a small porch, which my grandpa loved. I remember fondly
going up to visit my grandparents daily, and running errands for them. By the
age of six I would walk down to the corner market, often with a note from my
grandma, explaining (to the shopkeeper) what they needed me to get. When I
would return, my grandma would give me a thick slice of pumpernickel bread with
butter and some weak tea. I felt like an adult sitting with my grandma and
sipping tea from a china cup with a chipped saucer. Then I would sit next to my
grandpa, and he would tell me stories while puffing on a cigarette.
One day when I got home from school
I was planning to run upstairs when my mom stopped me and said that Grandpa Ike
(Isaac) had gone to heaven and that Grandma Rose was at my Aunt Esther’s house.
Esther was my dad’s sister. It was my first experience with death close up. I
remember feeling very sad, especially for my grandma, my dad, and his sisters
(my aunts) Esther and Ann. During shiva
I drew pictures of my grandpa and asked how I could mail them to heaven. The
next few months were hard, especially because my Grandma Rose decided to move
into my Aunt Esther’s house so that she could be near both of her daughters in
Forest Park. I still visited but not being able to run upstairs to get tea and
pumpernickel and listen to grandpa’s stories was difficult.
These days, it’s quite common when
elderly parents cannot be on their own for them to move to assisted living or, sometimes,
to a nursing home. While such decisions are logical and understandable, and
sometimes unavoidable, recalling the special days I had with my grandparents,
when they lived in our home, are treasured memories. The life lessons I learned
were so valuable. Most of my friends also had a bubby or zeidy living with them,
and like me, some also experienced death, and mourning, close up.
* * *
In the last couple of decades I’ve
received calls from adult children seeking advice about what to do with their
aging parents. Often the conversations go something like this: “My mom (or dad)
or my in-laws are not easy. We have other obligations, and we enjoy traveling.
Their needs are really straining our marriage. Also, our son has basketball
games at the same time my mother has her doctor’s appointments. I really need,
for my son’s sake, to be at his games.” Sometimes, although the aging parents
are still fairly independent, and can still take care of themselves, I’ll
receive a call that goes like this: “Rabbi, my parents have decided to move
near us. They didn’t ask us if it’s okay. They just decided on their own. We
don’t think we can cope with having them so close. We know that they’ll
probably just drop in whenever they feel like it, and they’ll expect to be
invited for every Shabbat and Yontiff meal. It’s just way too much. How do we
tell them that we have our own lives and that we need space? We don’t want to
hurt them, but we don’t want to wreck our lives and put stress on our kids who
also have lives to live.”
Recently, a prominent rebbitzen, who
is a few years my junior, said to me, “We have grandchildren in Israel and
America. They’re all nice children, but my Israeli grandkids are so much more
sensitive and caring of each other and even of strangers. When I visit them in
Israel, they are truly happy to see me. They want to spend time with me, and
want to do whatever they can to make me comfortable. In contrast, my American
grandkids greet me pleasantly and then usually return to whatever activity they
were involved in before I arrived. Occasionally, we’ll speak, but that’s
because I initiate the conversation, which is usually brief.”
The rebbitzen (a rosh yeshiva’s
wife) wanted to know if this was unique to her or if it was a common situation.
I assured her that it was not unique to her. The reality is that frum kids in Eretz Yisrael grow up in an
environment that fosters caring, sensitivity to others, and sharing. They don’t
have parents shuttling them to numerous after-school programs and activities.
They lead relatively simple lives. They play together outside, and they don’t
have lots of “stuff.” Most importantly, they aren’t glued to smart phones. In
many ways, they are being raised as my generation was when we were kids. Looking
after (and appreciating) elderly grandparents therefore comes naturally to
them, and they do it besimcha (happily).
While some elderly parents are
difficult and not easy to care for, and sometimes their needs really are too
great for children to cope with, there are many others who can be accommodated
by living near their children or, in some cases (space permitting), by living
in their children’s homes. The unfortunate reality of the twenty-first century
in America is that the primary focus, all too often, is on “my wants and needs”
above all others. In a society driven by consumerism and freedom from being
burdened with responsibilities, looking after the aged is seen by many as an
inconvenient problem.
* *
*
There is a reason why we recite Shema Koleinu numerous times during the
High Holy Day season: “Do not cast us away in our old age; when our strength
gives out do not forsake us.” Just as we ask Hashem not to cast us aside, we
are reminded that we have a responsibility not to do that to the elderly around
us. Hashem treats us as we treat each other.
As Elul and Slichos are upon us, this is a good time to reflect on the
blessings that we have and not take them for granted. It is also an excellent
time to express hakaras hatov (gratitude) to Hashem and to those
around us.
In the late 80s, I was doing a
series of teacher training workshops in Australia and New Zealand. At the end
of one session, a teacher approached me and said, “As an educator, who did you
model yourself after? Who were your mentors?” I had never been asked that before.
It was then that I realized that my real mentors and role models, the ones I
aspired to emulate, were my favorite teachers. I realized that I was an amalgam
of those teachers. That night, I concluded that I owed a huge debt of gratitude
to each of those unique and gifted teachers. I did a bit of research and got
their addresses. Some had unfortunately passed away. I decided to write thank
you notes and express my gratitude for the impact they had on my life and my
career. In each case, I received a return letter thanking me for thanking them,
and expressing appreciation for thinking of them. That taught me how important
it is, especially before Rosh Hashanah, to express our gratitude to our horim (parents) and morim (teachers). In fact, the Talmud, in Rosh Hashanah 16b,
teaches that a student should visit his teacher before every chag (holiday). As our primary teachers,
our parents are certainly included. It means so much to them, and it is
important preparation for Rosh Hashanah to become more sensitive, grateful, and
appreciative to those who nurtured our growth and development.
* * *
One final thought about perspective.
I have to remind myself that, when I share events from the Sixties with my
grandkids, it’s similar to when my grandparents shared stories with me from the
teens and twenties of the twentieth century. This reality came into focus last
month, on July 20th, when I was relating, first hand, to one of my
younger grandchildren, the story of the first lunar landing, the flight of
Apollo 11. On that day, in 1969, I went over to my grandparents’ (my mom’s
parents) home to sit with them to watch this epic moment on their TV, which was
a huge piece of furniture with a 14-inch screen. My grandma Pauline (Pesha)
recalled being born before Wilber and Orville Wright made their first flight of
852 feet on a beach near Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, on December 17, 1903.
Sitting with her and my grandpa, who was, at the time of the Wright brothers
flight, five years old and living in an impoverished Ukrainian shtetl, left an
indelible impression on me. In the span of just 66 years, mankind progressed
from flying 852 feet to landing on the moon. I have always been grateful that I
was privileged to share that incredible moment in time with my grandma and
grandpa. My eyes kept moving from the TV screen to their faces, as they watched
in awe and disbelief, as tears rolled down their cheeks as they prayed for the
welfare of the astronauts.
Our world has changed dramatically
since 1969. Lately, I am reminded regularly of the statement made by Abraham
Yehoshua Heschel in 1966: “When I was young, I admired clever people; now that
I’m old, I admire kind people.” As I recite Yizkor
on Yom Kippur, I still hold on to the warm memories of my parents,
grandparents, and special teachers, whom I remember so fondly and to whom I owe
so much.
