A subdued Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur

A member of our shul, a mother of five, lost her fight with cancer on the first night of Rosh Hashana. When the family realized that her death was near, they checked her into the hospital and stayed with her. Had she died at home, the burial would have taken place on Yom Tov with the family walking to the local cemetery. But the hospital storage facilities allowed the funeral to be postponed until Motzei Rosh Hashanah. Close to a thousand people attended including the mayor, whose son had been her student.

When my own mother died I learned that most people continue to leave shul during the Yizkor memorial prayer until after the year of mourning. We found that there was not much basis for this custom, and the rabbi said I could do what I want (I went). I noticed that the teenage daughter, who had finished shiva only the day before, did stay for Yizkor. In our shul, the chazan (cantor) says a prayer in memory of the members who have died over the years. The mother's name was read for the first time.

May her family take comfort from her memory during the coming year.

Who are you waiting for, Miss America? Guess not.

Last night we went to the shiva for the mother of an old friend. The friend told how her mother's mother studied piano with Bess Myerson, the first (and only?) Jewish Miss America. My friend's great-grandmother tried to fix up one of her sons with Bess, but they weren't interested. 

If I have it right, this great-grandmother was American-born, and attended Hunter College in the 1890's. When her future husband, a Polish immigrant, was looking for a shidduch, he asked for a "religious, American-born girl." The great-grandmother agreed to marry him on condition that he close his factory on Shabbat. Apparently, being "religious" in those days did not include strict Sabbath observance. 

(Mis)Adventures in International Travel: A long life

A year ago my sister's energetic and charismatic mother-in-law, still living on her own, was diagnosed with incurable cancer. It was sad to hear of this 96-year-old woman suffering at the end of life.

My sister called a few days before my trip to tell me that her mother-in-law had stopped eating. She died at her home the morning I arrived.

Usually I stay in New York when I visit, but this year I had arranged to visit my brother in Washington. He agreed to have us come a week earlier than planned, so I changed our reservations in order to leave after the funeral the next day. After paying the airline's fee, we received e-tickets with the new dates. We would return to New York after the bulk of the family had left my sister's house, where the shiva would take place.

At the funeral my brother-in-law spoke about his mother's passion for her grandchildren. She bragged about them to no one but their parents, because telling people outside the family would only make them feel bad. Her grandson spoke about her giving him a check for $100.25. When he inquired about the odd sum she replied that the hundred dollars was because she loved him. The $0.25 was so that he would "call her sometime."

I blogged here about the compassion and assistance of my sister's in-laws during another international trip. My sister's mother-in-law had a warm place in her heart for my family, and despite the "balagan" of arriving in the midst of everything I was glad to be at the funeral. My children stayed with my father and his helper.

About thirty people returned to lunch at my sister's, but I didn't have much time before leaving for the airport. Amazingly, my sister found a ride for the four of us with a couple on their way back to Manhattan. They were happy to fill their van, now that their children are mostly grown. I sympathized; our own van is rarely full these days.

To be continued . . .

A stranger in the house--only in Israel

Last night we paid a shiva (condolence) call to a dear friend and neighbor who lost her mother z"l. We began talking about condolence calls from people you don't recognize, and being too embarrassed to ask who they are. She recalled the following story about someone who asked, and received an unexpected reply.

While at a neighbor's shiva, a Hassid dressed in tights, kapote, and gartel walked into the house and sat down. A hush fell over the visitors. (I actually saw something similar happen at a recent shiva, but that Hassid brought an entourage.) The mourner, who happened to have many chassidic relatives, asked him if he was related to her. He said no.

"Why have you come?" she asked.

"I'm the repairman," the Hassid said. "I'm here to fix your washing machine."

And he proceeded to do just that.

A Creative Solution for Unruly Teenagers

In the excellent book On Writing Well by William Zinsser (see my Library Thing sidebar--thank you Wolf), the author suggests improving your writing by imitating other writers you admire. My most recent post on cooking is modelled on Frugal Journey, Raanana Ramblings inspired my post on Efi, and the following is the kind of story that Rafi would tell.

On Friday we made a shiva call (visit to comfort a mourner) to our neighbor, who lost his mother. While there the neighbor mentioned that his father's family has run the hevra kadisha (burial society) in Jerusalem for generations, and told the following story.

During the forties, young Arabs disrupted the funerals on Har Hazeitim (Mt. of Olives) by yelling and throwing stones. Our neighbor's grandfather, head of the hevra kadisha, decided to put a stop to this once and for all. He dressed in tachrichim (traditional burial garments) and had the hevra kadisha carry him on a stretcher to the cemetery. When the stones started flying, the hevra kadisha ran away and left the grandfather on the ground. The stonethrowers cautiously approached the "corpse," who suddenly came to life and started shouting. He had a long beard and cut quite a formidable figure; they probably thought he was the Angel of Death.

Afterward the funerals at Har Hazeitim proceeded without interruption, at least until 1948 when the Jews were denied access for the next nineteen years.