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.

On 9/11, 'We are OK; our city is not'

We had Passover once at Windows on the World, the spectacular restaurant on the 107th floor of the World Trade Center, with views of Manhattan, Brooklyn and New Jersey. It was a big treat.

Sometimes we went out on Jewish holidays to give my mother a break from doing it. Our apartment was small. Sometimes we extended the dining room table with a bridge table or made a children's table in our bedroom. It could turn into a large group including our extended family. I remember getting dressed up to go to Windows on the World, and then the long ride up in the elevator.

Ben was in kindergarten, Joe still a tiny little thing.

Ben had been fascinated (OK, obsessed) with presidents. On his bookshelf, books about sports and books about presidents. We read presidents' biographies. He had a presidents placemat, which I have kept all these years.

When we passed Greenwich, Connecticut, on the way down to New York, he was so excited: President George Bush was from there. He even wanted to detour and drive around. I actually can't remember if we did. It would have been difficult because the parkways would have been jammed with people going to "the old country."

Ben could recite the presidents in order. My mother had him do it for the occasion. I can see him in his little bowl cut with bangs. If it was these days I might have made a Youtube video and turned him into a star. He was a star anyway.

My parents were at doctors' appointments on 9/11. They were walking up Fifth Avenue when a Good Samaritan got them a cab. My father had gotten unsteady at this time a little more than a year before his death. It was a minor miracle.

When I went to The Republican to do my part in the stories that we were all feeding to one reporter, I (also miraculously) got through to my cousin Bruce in New York. He told me that my parents had gotten home to the apartment on upper Fifth Avenue, from which you could see the smoke downtown.

"We are OK," Bruce said. "Our city is not."

My father sat on my living room couch months later in the spot near the window where he liked to read The New York Times in the morning sun.

"The bastards," he said.

What they had done to our city. It was, and is, a living thing to us. I haven't lived there for a long time, but it is still my city. I wasn't there, but yet I was.

Compared to all the tragedy, this was, and is, incredibly minor. But I was so sad that he saw the destruction and he never saw our city repaired. At least my mother had that.

On 9/11, 79 employees of that spectacular restaurant in the sky lost their lives. They were among 2,753 who died in New York, out of a total of 2,996 in the country.

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.

Back to the old country

I am heading down to New York today, the annual trek to "the old country" for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. It's a time when Jews from all over converge on New York, hence my memories of the holiday usually include a big traffic jam on the way down.

Tomorrow is the day, and before I continue, I want to wish everyone a happy, healthy year that hopefully brings more peace to our troubled world.

Of course my parents are foremost in my memory. We had a tradition. My mother set a beautiful table the night before, and my father loved to cut the round challah and wish everyone a New Year with no round edges, just like the challah. We ate it with honey and had sweet honeydew melon, all for a sweet New Year.

We went to services, where everyone was all dressed up, then to the local Greek coffee shop for lunch with cousins who had also attended, then hung out at the apartment for a little while before proceeding on to dinner with my father's side of the family.

I have followed the tradition as closely as possible, with gaps when I was in the hospital or unable to go into a crowded place. Joe was unable to go because he was in college in Maine, and I missed him, with memories of the two young brothers walking ahead of us in their similar suits, the rest of us behind them  remarking on how cute they were.

I was almost going to skip the services at the 92nd Street Y this year. They have modernized, and the cousins who usually go decided to go elsewhere, though we will try to meet for lunch. I thought we would just get together, have a round challah, and say our own prayers. I was sad about it, but with the cousins now leaving, and the price for tickets very high, I figured that's just the way it was going to be.

I ran it by Katie and she said that it was fine, but somehow I didn't get around to asking Ben until a couple of weeks ago. I just figured that it would be OK with him too. I was surprised, and also touched, when he said that actually he would like to go because it keeps him connected to his Jewish roots.

I panicked. The Y fills up. The subscription manager would never just sell me the tickets for the one day at this point. He would say he'd have to discuss it with the board. It would be the equivalent of ruining Christmas.

I called as soon as I could and made my plea, and he was very nice and gave (well, sold) me the seats.

Saved.

It's supposed to be sunny, as it always seems to be on Rosh Hashanah. We'll do our version of the tradition: services, lunch, then Betsy and Michael's, now in Queens. Family dinner with Marge and Bill on Saturday.

And then, true confessions, we have tickets for the Sunday matinee of "The Book of Mormon" on Broadway before we head back. It's kind of an odd combination of events, but what can I say. We were going to be in the city anyway, so it seemed to work out. I think my parents would approve.

The face of cancer

In an interview on National Public Radio today, film critic Roger Ebert discusses his decision to write openly about the multiple cancer surgeries that left him unable to speak.


Communicating through a computer program that turns his typed words into speech, Ebert told interviewer Melissa Block that his approach differs from the way his old sparring partner, Gene Siskel, dealt with the brain tumor that took his life in 1999.


"He was intensely private about the situation," Ebert told Block. "I respect it. I think perhaps it influenced me to be very open about my own illness."


The 69-year-old Ebert did the interview in connection with his new memoir, "Life Itself." He had salivary gland cancer, thyroid cancer and cancer of the jawbone, and after reconstructive surgeries failed, he was left with no lower jaw. Unable to eat or drink, he is fed through a tube; he breathes through a tracheotomy, which took away his speech.


His situation is extreme in many ways, but his forthrightness presents an opportunity for patient/survivors  in general to examine their feelings about being open and their fears that if they are, they might regret it.


Ebert is a prolific movie critic and blogger; he calls his blog "a venue for my truths," and one of those truths, Block says, was posting a photo of his disfigured face.


"I was advised not to be photographed looking like this," he tells her. "Well, it's how I look. And there's nothing I can do about it. We spend too much time as a society denying illness. It's a fact of life."


Ebert has been through hell, but in addition to talent, bravery, and resilience, he has an advantage: His fame gave him a "pass go" card to pursue his profession with less fear of stigma than ordinary people. 


September brings with it the hope for new beginnings (think freshly-sharpened pencils, blank notebooks and back-to-school clothes for everyone and, for Jews, the upcoming High Holy Days of reflection and repentance beginning with the new year, Rosh Hashanah). For those fortunate enough to be back on their feet, it is an especially interesting time to reflect on  the question of how up-front to be and how it affects decision-making in the coming year.


I've been thinking of this myself as I ponder the question of where I go from here. I spent the last "school year" regaining my strength and finding freelance work to update my clips and polish my interviewing, researching and writing skills.


I feel great. After a characteristically intense dose of rumination compounded by fear of getting back out there again, I decided to apply for select full-time jobs (one in particular really appeals to me) and to continue trying to get more freelance jobs (I have some ideas and also possibilities that seem likely to turn over in the near future).


There is plenty of thinking to be done. In the meantime, of course, I have to keep up with my tennis game.

Tradition, tradition!

Katie and I had a successful whirlwind trip for Rosh Hashanah to what my friend Danny calls "the old country," i.e. New York City.

A month ago, I couldn't have contemplated such a trip. But this time I felt I had the endurance and strength to do it. So off we went. We started by taking the same Amtrak train to Penn Station, but from different starting points. Katie got on near Brandeis (outside of Boston) and I got the same train in New Haven. I found her easily and we rode together to the city.

Unfortunately, she had forgotten her sneakers and dress shoes and was wearing only dog-chewed flip flops. Cousin Serena, who is about Katie's size and lives two subway stops from Penn Station, came to the rescue. I called her as we approached the station at 8:30 p.m. and she met us at a nearby restaurant with a bag containing the appropriate shoes. We had a quick dinner and a nice visit and then headed up to 1200 Fifth Ave., where we were staying at a friend of our mother's. We've done this periodically since my mother's death in 2006. It's been great to go home again, but complicated because my parents are no longer there.

The next day, in keeping with tradition, we attended services at the 92nd Street Y, where we met up with Ben. When my parents were alive, we crowded around a back table at a Greek coffee shop down the street along with our cousin Joanne, her husband Alan and whomever else had come to services.

But it was out of business, so we walked uptown to the Three Guys coffee shop. Tradition modified but continued. My mother loved Three Guys. She joked that while some customers are known at fancy restaurants, she liked being a regular at Three Guys, where they always knew her name (and her order).

I talked to Diane, David and Joe and wished them a Happy New Year – and Joe a happy 21st birthday. (Joe's school, Bates, is in Maine, too far for him to make the trip. Diane, meanwhile, spent the day with David's side of the family.)

We used to have dinner with my father's side of the family at my cousin Betsy and Michael's house. I don't see them that much, but I like seeing them and maintaining family ties, so this year we had dinner with them at their apartment in Queens, where we had a good time catching up...and eating a delicious meal complete with my grandmother's honey cake (made by Betsy).

We said the prayers over the round challah (no sharp edges, for a smooth New Year), which we ate with honey (more sweetness), and of course we drank that good Jewish red wine.

Friday was for free time; Katie jogged, and I trotted, around the reservoir in Central Park, another of my haunts when growing up and when we visit. In the afternoon we headed down to the Museum of Modern Art, where we were unnerved by the sound of shouting coming from the atrium. It stopped and started, sounding like people taking turns being flogged or killed.

As you headed upstairs, you could look down below and see what was happening: People took turns walking up to a microphone and screaming. The main exhibit on Matisse was sold out for the day, so we wandered around and then watched the people screaming. We discovered that it was the conception of Yoko Ono, who wrote that she wanted people to scream into the wind in honor of the oppressed who had no voice. We preferred another Yoko Ono project, a "wish tree" in the courtyard. People wrote wishes on tags provided by the museum and then tied them on the nearly-bare tree where the white tags waved in the breeze like leaves.

Many were in other languages. Most of those we could read were for peace, health and happiness. Some were cute ones from kids: I hope fifth grade will be good, etc. I attached my own wish, and then off we went, heading across town to meet relatives from my mother's side of the family.

We ate at one of our favorite French restaurants, where we sat outside in the balmy evening. We see them frequently and always enjoy the time. We fell into an easy conversation, providing each other with updates and just talking about this and that.

Next day (Saturday) we met my high school friend, Margie, for a quick breakfast, then went down to Penn Station and got a train to New Haven, where Jim picked us up. Went home for the rest of that day and evening, and then today, Katie and I drove to Brandeis. I dropped her off and came to Newton, where I am now. Tomorrow I have a check-up at Dana-Farber.

Diane and I watched some of the U.S. Open; they showed a replay of a semifinal from yesterday because the men's final was rained out today. I kept falling asleep. A thought flashed through my head: Maybe the reason I'm sleepy is that something is terribly wrong. Quick correction: I spent three days going up stairs, down stairs, up streets, down streets, going to services (standing up, sitting down), going to restaurants, catching trains, going to a museum, around the reservoir...and even into another borough!

Sorry if this reads like a shallow travelogue. I have skimmed over the history, emotion and meaning of the Rosh Hashanah service and over the wonders of the treasures we saw at the MOMA: works by Seurat, Picasso, Matisse, Cezanne, Monet and others.

Obviously there is more to say about each stop, but I mainly wanted to give a picture of the ground covered, the importance of continuing traditions even as they evolve, and the sustenance provided by family and friends who are just like family.

I'm glad I did it, but I'm pretty beat.

My appointment tomorrow is noon. You never know what that means. Could be 1 or later. Could also make me fall off my seat by actually being noon. My wishes for the day are to get a good report and to get in and out on time to get home (two-hour drive) to watch the men's final, scheduled for 4.

'Home' for the holiday

I took this photo Saturday with my cell phone at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. A popular gathering place, it's frequently a backdrop in movies. Jeanne, Katie and I sat on a bench in the warm sun and could have stayed all day, but Katie and I had to head back home. The park visit was a part of our whirlwind Friday/Saturday visit to New York for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

When I was in high school, I hung out at the fountain frequently. Most of my friends lived downtown, so we tended to congregate more there. But I also went to the fountain, much of the time with my cousin Nancy, who lived uptown like me. Nancy was (and still is) nine months older and seemed so grown-up and cool to me. She hung around with a bunch of older kids, including a couple of guys who frightened and fascinated me. (What were they, probably all of 19?) I trotted along with Nancy, doing what teen-agers did at the fountain in those days. It was, as they said, groovy.

This past Saturday, a gaggle of college-age students in Speedos ran around the fountain, stopping in front of people to perform little songs and goofy dances for them, then holding out their hat. I told Katie that if some silly guys did that in "our day," we would have thrown them into the fountain. (Oh, will those aging baby boomers ever stop talking about the good old days?)

Around this time last year, I wrote a post, Should I Stay or Should I Go?, about my indecision about returning to the "old country" for the holiday. I was about three-and-a-half months past my third transplant, and although I was, and am, attached to the traditions and to going to services, I stayed home and sent Katie alone to meet up with Ben and cousins. I had a little get-together at my house where we ate a round challah with honey, symbolizing no sharp edges and a sweet New Year.

This year I actually went, although Dr. Alyea said I shouldn't go to the crowded services. Once again, as it has been for all my little getaways, the weather was perfect. Katie and I drove down Friday afternoon and moved our stuff into the apartment building where I grew up, and where we now stay with my mother's 93-year-old friend, Muriel, who has become like an aunt to us. Then we went to a restaurant called Deux Amis, where we had dinner outside with my real aunt, Marge; her husband, Bill; and my cousin Jeanne, who brought a round challah. I'm not supposed to eat in a restaurant, but I can sit at outside tables, and I can order cooked food (not salads or anything raw.)

The next day when Ben and Katie went to services, Jeanne kept me company walking around the upper east side, near the 92nd Street Y, where the services are. For lunch, we met another cousin, Joanne, at an outside cafe – most of the places have outdoor tables now – and then ended up in the park. We really didn't want to leave. It would be nice if there was a machine that would woosh you up to where you want to go, so that you could linger but still get back home at a reasonable hour. But alas, there isn't, and we ended up getting home around 9 p.m.

Two large school systems around us, Amherst and Longmeadow, have a sufficient Jewish population to close on the Jewish holidays. But South Hadley does not. It felt good to be in the city, where store doors carried signs reading "Closed for Rosh Hashanah" and people dressed for temple crowded the streets.

Back home, we felt good that we had said the prayer over the round challah, visited with family and maintained some tradition. It was, of course, different, because we grew up celebrating it with my parents, who hosted the holiday dinner the night before, and then took us to a relative's house after temple. I missed them. But I could still hear my father saying, "Here's to a sweet New Year with no sharp edges!" He loved to say that.

L'Shanah Tovah. Peace and good health to everyone.

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.