Friday, March 25, 2011

reshelving books, with great love

I am missing my beloved Friday morning yoga class today because some movers need me to be home from 9-2. They are bringing to me some of my grandparents' things, for the final time. It's a big deal.

The first time a moving truck brought me things from my grandparents' home, Mama and Papa were in the process of moving out of the Great Neck ranch home that was the site of all my childhood seders, my first nights of Hannukah, my Rosh Hashanah lunches. It was a place I almost always entered through the side door, with the comforting certainty that my grandmother would be working in her kitchen and that my Papa Sam would grab me and say "hey there, ya bug, what's the word?"

The shipment they sent me last time, in 1996, furnished approximately half of my apartment in Clifton, where I lived for three years with a very sweet little boy named Max. My grandparents never visited this apartment - their last trip to Cincinnati was for Max's first birthday, just a few months before we moved - but because of this shipment, they were with us every day in spirit. On our birthdays, they called Max and me to sing to us as soon as we woke up in the morning, and later in the day, flowers would arrive from Adrian Durban and packages would come in the mail. But it made me happy to wake up on every ordinary day and see my grandmother's neoclassical Baker bench at the foot of my bed, her pretty French writing desk waiting on the opposite side of my bedroom. In the living room were her four, black, lacquered chairs, painted with beautiful roses. Perhaps best of all, sitting on my bookshelves, were many of their books.

My grandfather had lovingly wrapped, and then filled the drawers of a dresser with, very special books: a small black prayer book Mama had used in Brooklyn in the 30's, books about the great composers and their music, and books from the place they used to call Palestine, our beloved Jewish homeland, which I grew up knowing Papa just wanted to live long enough to introduce me to. Papa got his wish: we went on a family pilgrimage to Israel when I was twelve and again when I was fourteen. When my first husband and I visited Israel in 1993, my grandparents were there as well, and we met up with them in Jerusalem. Papa Sam even stuck around for yet another 5 1/2 years after that, sweetening each subsequent season of my life with his constant love and wisdom.

The other day, while on a field trip together, my son's second grade teacher asked me about my background in Judaic studies. I explained that my grandfather was "supposed" to have become a rabbi, but he left Poland to become a chemist and a businessman in America. Papa was a scholar all his life, and his love of Judaism and Israel and his life long passion for learning shaped me greatly growing up and continue to influence me today.

Another of their books that I found in my mother's childhood dresser that day in 1996- a piece of furniture which I would soon repaint for Max - was a gorgeous illuminated Megillat Esther. The cover is beautifully embossed black leather, with a window featuring an engraved copper plate of men praying at the Western Wall. Tissue paper lies protectively atop each breathtaking illustration of this book, which was published in Jerusalem in 1947. This Megillah is not only a valuable and beautiful book, but meaningful for several other reasons. My grandmother was the most regal person I knew (and that includes the arab Prince I hung out with in London in 1987). Mama's given name was Esther, and from well before I was born she reigned over our family and continued to do so until her death about a year ago. Her historic namesake's holiday, when we read the Megillat Esther in temple, has just passed, and now, Mama Esther's first yartzheit is fast approaching. After 43 years of having her in my life, I am still unaccustomed to her absence.

When I got the call, just two weeks ago, that the shelves from her living room and den, as well as my grandfather's desk, were soon going to be in my home, my first impulse was to call Mama up and tell her the good news. I knew she'd be happy. I see her picture on my kitchen windowsill every day and think of things to tell her as I wash the dishes. The few items I admitted I would like to have after her death - she had pressed me to name them and then promised they would be mine - were evidently not itemized in a will. I never heard anything about her having written will and testament; all I know is that the few items Mama promised to me are in my mother's possession instead. I was rather upset for a few minutes and then promptly put it in perspective; it's just stuff.

But today, I can't help it; I am just so thrilled to have these shelves and desk. It may sound impersonal to you, perhaps, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The shelves that are wrapped and sitting on pallets in a truck right now are something I stood before, in wonder, throughout the first several decades of my life, gazing upon the display of my grandparents' most treasured items. In their living room, first in Great Neck and then in the apartment in Garden City, their immaculately shiny chrome and glass shelves displayed books about Jerusalem and Masada, about the first days of Israel, about Ben Gurion and Golda Meir. The shelves held silver spice boxes and kiddush cups, and a hannukiah made of Jerusalem stone. The shelves in my grandfather's den held more books, and also displayed pictures of my sister and me, their only grandchildren, and photos of their two daughters. Eventually, it also held a picture of the six of us, standing in Jerusalem with the Western Wall behind us. Both sets of shelves were walls that defined my grandparents. Now I will be able to return some of their favorite books, which they shared with me years ago, back onto the shelves where I first gazed upon them. My mother is holding several other of Mama and Papa's special books for me in her home, and these will be returned to the shelves as well.

The desk is another story. It was private; it was Papa's; end of story. I never once thought to snoop inside its drawers. My snooping was strictly limited to the guest room, in the back of the house, once my aunt's childhood bedroom, where Mama kept a closet full of handbags, shoes, scarves and long beaded necklaces, perfect for dress up.

Ah, the mover has just called from down the street. I'm going to try not to cry as we unwrap all these memories in my living room. I feel so fortunate to be bringing my grandparents things once more into my life, into a home that is so full of love, Judaism, music and learning. Mama and Papa are still with us and they always will be. And for that, I am so very grateful.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

to Help Stop Bullying

The One you just called fat? She has been starving herself and has lost over 30 pounds. Someday she may see an endocrinologist to learn about why her body's metabolism is different from yours...

The One you just called stupid? She has a learning disability & studies over 4 hrs a night. She is full of wonderful, original ideas she has not yet learned how to express.

The One you just called ugly? She spends hours reading magazines about how to be popular, tweezing her eyebrows and putting on makeup, hoping people will like her.

The One you just tripped? She is abused enough at home. When she is alone, she cuts herself and picks at her scabs so she can feel a sense of control over her own pain.

There's always more to people than you what you see.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

the nesting imperative

For some people, the harbingers of spring are little green shoots poking out of the partially thawed ground. For me, it is another miracle of nature that signals the coming change of season, but it takes place in my open air art studio, right off the kitchen.

Every year at this time, our breakfasts are enlivened by the darting back and forth of little brown finches outside the enormous louvered windows facing the studio. The birds are terribly busy refurbishing a double decker nest on the lower and middle shelves of a antique kitchen cabinet. So old and exposed to the elements that its vanilla yellow paint has achieved a natural crackle effect never to be matched by faux technique, the cabinet hangs on the exterior wall of our home, origianlly intended merely as a convenient spot to store paint, gesso, glitter glue, sequins and the like.

The two slightly warped doors of the cabinet each hold several panels of glass, and during the first year in our home, when I occasionally felt inspired to tidy up the studio, I would force them shut and fasten them with a dangly, painted metal hook. The rest of the time, I left them slightly ajar and they would slowly swing to a fully open position in the breeze. This gave the birds easy access to the shelves inside, and evidently, they found or created enough space behind a lean to of plastic palettes to build a suitable nursery. Now, the cabinet doors hang open permanently, allowing the easy return of the nest refurbishment crew.

As winter ends, the cabinet becomes a veritable condominium for finches. I look forward to this event each year and delight in the various stages of the bird life cycle that we are privileged to witness so very close up.

This time, as we watch the renovation and refeathering, Isaac asks me if he and his brother Sam could also build a nest for themselves, because it looks like such fun to build and so very cozy inside. I tell him that his father and I had already provided them a cozy nest: their bedroom.

I explain that this is part of nature. "The Mommy bird has something inside her," I say, "that makes her start bringing bits of fluff to a nest before her eggs are ready to hatch. Whether a Mommy is a bird, a monkey or a person," I tell Isaac, "this is what we are programmed to do. Whenever one of you babies was on the way," I say, "I would be overtaken by an irresistable impulse to order new bedding and repaint the furniture."

"But what about the Daddy bird?", Isaac asks, as I knew he would. "The Daddy bird is programmed to help," I tell him. "And your Daddy would put the crib together for the new baby." We stand together in the kitchen, watching the pair of finches dart busily back and forth, in and out of the cabinet, working in what appears to be perfect harmony. I silently marvel at the lack of squawking on the part of the Mommy bird. Either she thinks her mate is doing a perfect job helping with the nest, I reason, or else, she is just too busy using her beak to haul and arrange feathers to have time to stop and criticize him. Constructively, of course.

Soon, it will soon get very noisy out there. The birds - both parent and offspring - are very vocal once the babies arrive, and I'm looking forward to that stage as well. I'll take and post pictures of the nests as soon as the coast is clear.