Trekking, schlepping, & celebrating

I am just getting around to writing about my great trip to “the old country” to celebrate Rosh Hashanah. 

I got back on Tuesday, feeling kind of scrunched up from a lot of driving, and then thankful for Wednesday morning yoga, and got back in a car to go to Dana-Farber. Thursday I overslept for the first time in a long time. I woke up only a little before 9:30, which was tricky because I had to be at the Bay Road Tennis Club for my contract time at 10. It's not too far, so I made it, but I didn't get to stretch...or even fully wake up until a ball hit me in the left ear, somehow causing the opposite side of the frame to cause a little bruise behind my right ear. But anyway... 

The trip included: services at the 92^ndStreet Y, traditional post-service lunch at Three Guys Restaurant on 96th and Madison (the old neighborhood) with Katie, Ben and cousin Joanne; family dinner in Queens; hanging out in Brooklyn with Katie and discovering cool restaurants and new neighborhoods; getting rush tickets to see “Beautiful” ($40 orchestra seats) and wandering into my high school friend Amanda Church’s art exhibit in SoHo. 

If the sun came out once, it was for a peek through the clouds. Every time we thought it had stopped raining, it seemed to still be drizzling. I went in my summer clothes and had to borrow a sweatshirt. I had a sore toe, brought on by hiking in shoes that don’t have as much give as the sneakers I usually wear. It is black and bruised and half-off, of great interest to me but understandably not that fascinating to others. When it happened before, it was my runners' badge of honor for going 10 miles. Now, unfortunately, it's just for being careless. 

It slowed me down, somewhat. Still, what with walking here and there and up and down subway stairs, we put in our 10,000 steps most days.

$40 Broadway ticket

Having left home a little later than I planned last Saturday (who, me?) I drove down to Stamford, thinking that would be faster than parking in New Haven and taking the train from there. (You have to walk quite a ways in the station, and Stamford is more manageable). It probably wasn’t faster. Several bad accidents backed up the Merritt Parkway. 

I had an adventure after leaving Grand Central, when I found out that one of the trains that Katie had told me to take wasn’t running. A guardian angel (even older than I am, an RN from Jamaica) told me to follow her, "at no cost." We got onto an alternative train, which meant I got off at a different stop in Brooklyn than planned.

I packed light, but by this point my little purple suitcase felt heavy. Up the stairs I trudged, coming up onto the street into the midst of a flock of black-clad men celebrating the end of the Sabbath. It was the Lubavitch World Headquarters. Who knew? Katie did when she walked down from the other direction and motioned me to come across the street.

It was late and we were hungry. We went to a nearby Indian restaurant. I was surprised at how well it sat with me. (When we newspaper peeps ate down the street at Sitar, I could only eat one dish that didn’t bother me.) 

The only other diners occupied a long table behind us. It was a 60^thbirthday celebration, festive and loud. We didn’t mind, though, because it was entertaining to watch them. We sang happy birthday along with them, and they gave us each a piece of delicious, moist, chocolate cake. (Nutritional consultant, I hope you’re not reading this.)

I told Katie that it might have taken less time to go visit her in Minnesota!

With Amanda Church painting at
 Steven Harvey Fine Art Projects

On Sunday we went up to the art gallery and then further up to Broadway to seek out our rush tickets. My little theater guide (not so little, actually maybe taller than I am) did it again. I never knew from rush tickets. But now I do. The same-day, discounted tickets are not always available. We lucked out.

I had been a doubter about “Beautiful.” I thought it would be a too-nostalgic trip down memory lane. But I was wrong, and I was surprised, both by the story of how Carole King grew up in Brooklyn as Carole Klein and became Carole King when she sold her first song at the age of 16. I had no idea that she had written for so many groups. The story of her breaking out and singing her own songs – gasp – was interesting in that it would be taken for granted today.

And it was a treat (and a surprise) to see the role played and beautifully sung by Abby Mueller, sister of Jessie Mueller, who originated the role.

Monday we went to meet Ben. We got off at 86^thstreet and picked him up at Starbucks, then walked to the Y with him. From playing on the roof as a kindergartener there to going to services with my parents, I have many memories of time spent there. 

We like the rabbi, Elka Abrahamson, who combines a light touch with reverence for the holiday, the celebration of the new year, 5779. Some of us like the cantor more than others. It is controversial to some because he is a cantorial soloist, not a “real” cantor. The sound has changed since the days of my youth, from the choir, with an organ, to a band, with a combination of rock and klezmer sound.

I miss some of the traditional, more somber, singing, but in a way it’s better, because especially in the first year after my father died, the music made me sob into my prayer book.

And while I have to admit to occasionally nodding off in the past, and being rescued with help from those little candies my mother carried in her coat pockets and purses,  I never once felt sleepy.

I would have lingered over honey cake and challah, but we needed to keep moving. So it was on to Three Guys, then out to Queens via subway, then taking an Uber back to Brooklyn because it was more direct than the train.

The next morning, after bagels with Katie, I got back on the Metro North train for the first leg of my trip home. At this point I was tired and wished I had a longer train ride and a shorter drive home. But I had one-third on the train and two-thirds in the car.

 Fatigue might account for the moment when I burst into tears after finding out that I had accidentally parked in an executive garage, not the public garage, and that the cost of parking was more $110, much more than the public garage, which I had tried unsuccessfully to enter. 

It was an easy mistake (at least, if you’re me) since they are side by side, and when I was slowing down to find the entrance to the public garage, drivers behind me were so ferociously honking that I took the first garage entrance I saw.

Maybe these were held-back tears from missing my parents so much during the holiday observances. I know I’m not alone. Holidays can do that to you. I doubt I'll ever experience anything as beautiful as  my mother's holiday dinners. 

It’s always hard for me to leave New York, and top of that, even harder now because it involves leaving our newly minted Brooklynite. So I lollygagged, and by the time I got back home, it was dark. It seemed like it took a long time to get back, but not enough time to count all my blessings. These included having been on this planet to see the cutest set of first-day-of school photos ever, in my opinion, at least. 

Memories of my old country and first alma mater

When I say in these parts that I'm going to the Old Country, some think it's Poland or Ireland, but for me it's New York, N.Y., where I am now for this morning's services at the 92nd Street Y.

A lot of people have been sharing the beautiful video the Y produced for Rosh Hashanah, and I have been commenting that I'm proud it's my (kindergarten) alma mater. Actually nursery school and kindergarten, the green room and the red room.

I can remember playing on the roof, being in dance recitals in the auditorium where services are held, and pledging my love to Bobby G (I actually think we were sitting in a toy closet, but how can that be?) and Bobby returning my love so that we told our mothers we were engaged.

Later while in the auditorium for services, before feminism was "big," I remember my father and mother looking at all the names of the great men in history in panels on the ceiling and remarking that there were no women. My mother (and the mothers of my friends) was an early feminist without calling herself that, testing trucks in the army, running a jewelry business with my aunt, and with her mother, opening the jewelry store, Lynne's Speciality, which was my home away from home, 1288 Lexington Avenue, not even a 10-block walk from the Y.

Rosh Hashanah dinner at 1200 Fifth

We did a lot of things there besides going to services. I took dance classes there and have a strange memory of practicing a blind dance in the big blackout and having the teacher calmly say, well, we can open our eyes and still practice our blind dance because we won't be able to see.

The teacher made a mistake in letting me leave in the darkness to walk down to the store at the same time my mother had left looking for me. I remember being in a panic when our paths crossed and I couldn't find her but then going back and being relieved when she came back to get me.

The last Rosh Hashanah with my mother was painful. The lung cancer that appeared pretty quickly had progressed and totally changed her looks. Diane warned me because she had been there earlier. When I walked into the apartment for our erev Rosh Hashanah dinner, I was shocked at how pinched she was.

Many of us probably have that memory of our parents at the end. But I like to think of my vibrant mother and all those Rosh Hashanah dinners at the apartment and great years at the store and at the Y, dancing on the stage and holding hands with Bobby G and, as the diploma says, successfully completing the following courses: block-building, bike-riding, fingerpainting, modeling, music, pasting, horticulture, singing Shabbat-Shalom, living and laughing together, which I'm grateful that my mother had framed for me. And grateful for all the Rosh Hashanah memories and for Ben still being able to go to the Y with me and for cousin Jeanne and husband Bruce putting up with me spending the night at their apartment and for the pizza dinner we had which even though not traditional Rosh Hashanah dinner still had the spirit because we toasted to a good New Year and also of course grateful for my other children here with me in spirit and the rest of my family from and wishing all a healthy, happy, and peaceful New Year.

Happy New Year

Hello from New York and l'shana tova, with best wishes for a sweet New Year filled with good health and no sharp edges.

I arrived in the city yesterday, my first Rosh Hashanah visit to the old country without Katie, sweetened by the fact that I would meet Ben at services at the 92nd Street Y today and then go out to lunch. We feel a deep connection with the services we all attended since childhood, geography and health permitting.

I parked in Fairfield and took the train to Grand Central, where, I must admit, I felt somewhat fragile and unsteady schlepping my bag up and down stairs in a throng of people. Wanting to avoid the cost of a cab, I went up and down more stairs to get the subway to Jeanne's. When I got on the train I must have had the bug-eyed look of someone out of her element, and a man immediately offered me his seat. Back up on the street, there was more schlepping.

Nothing bad happened, although perhaps I should have just taken a cab. (Duh.)

As soon as I got settled, out to the park I went. I put on my running clothes, although I'm still not up to my usual run. That made me kind of sad, although I am alive and well and walking around taking in the sights, so I really don't have much to complain about.

Last night I went to Marge and Bill's for dinner. The family dinners at a restaurant are over, with Marge not feeling well enough to go out. But we had a nice meal of delicious food ordered from a nearby restaurant and eaten picnic style in Marge and Bill's bedroom.

It was great to go to the Y with Ben, such a handsome grownup. I told him it seemed like only yesterday that  my parents, Katie and I remarked how cute the two little brothers walking in front of us were in their khaki pants, blue shirts and blue blazers slung over their shoulders.

During the point in the service where the rabbi encouraged us to feel the presence of those who are gone and to see them clearly, a teared up, as I did after services as Ben and I headed to the old neighborhood for lunch and as I think now about our beautiful Rosh Hashanah dinners at a table that my mother so lovingly set, with a honey dew melon at every place (for a sweet year) and small bowls of honey in which we would dip our challah. And of course I think about the round challah over which my father said, "No sharp edges!"

All good memories, so again, no complaining.

And now for one more thought about transportation, one of my little obsessions: I got a free ride on the bus back down to Jeanne's because the Metro Card machine was broken, so with the $2.25 I saved, I can probably afford to take a cab back to Grand Central. I should take a cab anyway, so that I can start the year on good footing, so to speak, instead of tripping or stumbling, which, given my recent patterns, I might very well do.

Sharing the stage with 'the Jewish Katie Couric'

After the beautiful Rosh Hashanah service at the 92nd Street Y on Thursday, I introduced myself to the rabbi and said how much it meant to me to continue coming to the place where I grew up, where I actually went to kindergarden and also to High Holy Day observances every year with my parents and sister.

I introduced Ben and Katie and said they had grown up going to services there too and that we had all come in from out of town because we wanted to continue the tradition.

The rabbi, Jennifer Krause, seemed touched.

Krause took over in 2004, having replaced the older male rabbi we grew up with. She is incredibly vibrant, and she is a real charmer person-to-person. I learned later, when reading about her, that WNET, New York's public television station, called her one of "New York's hippest rabbis" and nicknamed her the Jewish Katie Couric.

She definitely has a refreshing style.

"Hi, I'm Jen," she had said, extending her hand.

Jen asked whether we would like to have an aliyah the next day. This is when you are called up to read from the Torah, and it is a great honor.

Ben was planning to go back to Connecticut that day, but Katie and I were staying in New York and couldn't possibly say otherwise. Truth is, we never even went to the second day of Rosh Hashanah services, which always has a smaller audience, but I wasn't going to admit that.

And with Jen suggesting it, suddenly I wanted to return. The four-hour-plus service had never gone by so quickly. But that didn't mean I actually wanted to go on stage.

"Uh, I don't speak Hebrew," I said.

"I wasn't even bat mitzvah'd," Katie said.

She told Katie that at age 12 she was automatically a bat mitzvah. I didn't know this, but I couldn't argue with the rabbi. Not speaking Hebrew was a problem, though.

"No problem," Jen said. "We'll find you a non-speaking role."

"I have stage fright!" I said.

This is totally true. Last time I was up on that stage was during a grade school dance recital (we took dance classes there), and that might have been the last time I was ever on a stage.

Once, in high school at Friends Seminary, I had to speak in front of the whole Quaker meeting (the school was run by Quakers but had a mixed student body). At least I was on the same level instead of on a stage, but that didn't stop me from freezing. I only made it through because my friend Margie Kaplan was nearby and whispered the beginning of my speech to me so I could get started.

Jen brushed aside the stage fright issue and said it would be great and to wait there while she asked someone who would know if there was a role left, and in the blink of an eye she returned and said to go talk to Frank, a man standing nearby who would tell us what to do. Saying no thanks was not an option.

Frank said that after the fifth aliyah, we would come on stage and share the honor of dressing the Torah.

After the last reader lifts it over his head, he walks to a chair and holds it on his lap. You belt the two scrolls together, put the covering over them and then place on the beautiful silver decorations, a front plate and a top piece for each scroll.

Easy peasy.

During the service on Thursday, the rabbi had joked that she was glad nobody had dropped either of the two Torah scrolls, because then everyone would have had to fast for 40 days, which would be obviously worse than just fasting on Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement that ends the 10-day observance).

My first year out of the hospital, I had my share of falls, and I'm sorry to say that a degree if klutziness has stayed with me. That night I had fears of bumping into Katie and causing her to bump into the Torah and knock it down. Which would be worse than any of the falls I have taken, including the one where I landed on my back, banged my head on the pavement and had to go straight to the hospital (Joe can tell you all about that one).

Thursday at dinner in Queens with relatives from my father's side of the family, I shared my concerns with a younger cousin who has dressed the Torah many times. He put it in a young person's vernacular, saying it was easy and adding, "Don't worry, you'll be spiritually pumped."

As the moment drew near on Friday, my heart beat quickly.

Then Frank made eye contact from the stage, our signal to start walking up to the front from our seats.

Katie had already told me she would walk behind me in case I fell backwards off the stairs.

Up the stairs we went. Whew. No problem.

Over to the Torah we walked as the last reader finished.

It really was quite incredible to be up there so close. Suddenly I felt very calm.

Someone was with us to whisper instructions, and, one piece at a time, we dressed the Torah for its return to the ark.

And then it was over.

On the way back down the stairs, I had no worries about falling.

We sat down smiling.

Afterwards, I shook Jen's hand and thanked her.

I hope I can do it again next year.

Should I stay or should I go?

I have a dilemma about the Jewish New Year.

For every year as long as I can remember, my family went to Rosh Hashanah services in New York at the 92nd Street Y. We had a routine: a big family dinner at my parents’ apartment, the beautiful services the next day followed by a light lunch at the local Greek coffee shop, then a visit to my cousin Betsy’s on Long Island.

Dinner was accompanied by the traditional foods: a round challah for a year with no sharp edges, plus sweet food for a sweet New Year – honeydew melon, honey and honey cake.

When the kids came along, the tradition continued, with people sleeping on the floor in my parents’ two-bedroom apartment. I always loved returning to the “old country” on these occasions.

Now my parents are gone and the family is scattered. Joe is in school in Maine and couldn’t possibly make it. At Day +110, I couldn’t even think about going. Diane is going to services in Concord (Mass.) and then to lunch with her sister-in-law. Katie and I have been invited.

But Katie feels extremely connected to the New York services. Our cousins still go, and Ben, who lives in the area, will be able to join them.

I have arranged it so that Katie will be able to go. She is going to take a train to Penn Station tomorrow, and one of the cousins will pick her up. She will go to services, have the family dinner at a restaurant, and sleep over for two nights. Since there are not too many Jews in our area, school will remain open. She’ll miss two days, but she’ll make up the work, and I think this is more important.

I am not an observant Jew, but I feel deeply connected to the traditions. But I am still in semi-quarantine. Since I am past 100 days, I am now allowed to go into peoples’ homes and eat their food. I could, conceivably, go to Concord, not for services but for lunch. The “crowd” there is lively, it would be nice to be with Diane, and the food is great. But the drive is close to two hours. I’d be fine going there, but I’m sure I would be tired on the way back. And then there is the problem of germs. I really don’t want to get sick and endanger my progress.

I could also stay home, make a round challah, and share it with some friends. We could say some blessings. I might feel more sadness this way, but a little sadness wouldn’t kill me. I could listen to that meditation CD that I still haven’t unwrapped. I could commune with my parents.

I have been trying to tune in to my parents’ voices. I feel that my mother, especially, often speaks to me. I’m feeling a little static here when I try to listen. But I think she’s saying, “Don’t go. You’ll be exhausted. Stay home and think your thoughts.”

Either way, I will have the satisfaction of having worked it out for Katie.

I had a similar experience on her 16th birthday, which was in July. She really wanted to go to New York to see “[Title of Show],” a new show whose development she had been following. We went on the Internet and bought tickets for her and a friend, and the two of them took the train to New York. My cousin Jeanne met them and went to the show with them and her daughter, Amanda. Ben and his girlfriend joined them for a birthday dinner that I hosted in absentia. Jeanne did a great job of helping to put it all together.

I was sorry that I couldn’t be there, but I felt great about having facilitated it. When Katie came home, we had a cake. She also had a group of friends over, and I spent most of the night in my room, hiding from germs. But I did swoop in every now and then, and I enjoyed the sound of their laughter.

I guess it’s a matter of figuring out different ways of staying connected. It’s still a work-in-progress.