LOVE:   is an intense feeling of affection

Synonyms include:

Deep affection, fondness, tenderness, warmth, intimacy, attachment, endearment, devotion, adoration, Doting, idolizations, worship, passion, ardor, desire, lust, yearning, infatuation, besottedness, compassion, care, caring, regard, concern, friendliness, good will and the list goes on.

It can be a noun:  She was the LOVE of his life.

An adjective:  Welcome to the LOVE club.    A greeting I give to grandparents on the birth of their first grandchild.

A verb:  I LOVE you!

An adverb: She looked at them lovingly.

My favorite is “I LOVE you!”

My advice to my children:  Always tell your spouse and children you LOVE them every day.

I end every phone call to my children and grandchildren and now close friends with I LOVE you!

LOVE can grow from a small feeling into caring, lust, deep affection and more.

As I look at these synonyms, I realize I have experienced each of them at different times in my life.

I am sure you have also.

I believe LOVE brings Joy.

I believe You are not whole if you have not had LOVE in your life, nor any memories of LOVE.

LOVE begins with self-LOVE and then you can share it freely.

Sometimes LOVE does stop.  People outgrow one another and their LOVE disappears.

Sometimes LOVE begins to grow slowly and then matures.

LOVE gives you a feeling of warmness, of being cared for, of happiness.

LOVE can be conveyed by words, drawings, poems, a soft touch, a whisper, a hug, a kiss on the cheek or forehead, and even a look.

To those who read this:

I wish you the gift of LOVE in your heart and that you share your LOVE abundantly.  I can guarantee that it will boomerang back.

A happy memory of a sunny day lingers

Sunshine abounds, covering the beach and its bathers

Under my umbrella I sit for protection

Not too much sun for me today

Not going to burn this time around

Yellow sand warms my feet lovingly

 

Dolphins in the ocean swim north in a school

Amazing waves crash at the shoreline

Yet, they begin to retreat as I will too, come sundown.

Are we almost there?

Days of waiting for the promised vaccine

Months of counting losses

Vanishing like smoke into the clouds

Yet not quite finished this silent threat

Of rebound

Yes, the balls in our court to mask or not

To keep away from those we love

Lines upon lines

Staggering to the finish

Seating in chairs with rolled up sleeves

A faint prick

And now the wait

Watching for the signs

A rash, a fever, chills and aches

Banished for now

Making room for lost hugs

Almost there!

Dripping down like tears falling gently to the earth

Clinging to the branches in clusters

Replenishing life-giving water

Covering the leaves like a canopy of white

Waiting for the sun to nurture unborn life

Children playing in the street

Fashioning snowballs with sticks and stones

Weaving a path towards home

Cheeks rosy from the cold

Shaking droplets from boots and hats

Sipping steaming cups of hot chocolate

Curling up with books and blankets

Dreaming of tomorrow

Shadows and light

Exposing the truth buried beneath the headlines

Lives disrupted, icons smashed

Freedom and justice restored

The Statue of Liberty burns brightly

A shot in the arm promising deliverance

Hopes and dreams ignited

An unbreakable bond between

We the people and elected leaders

Trust renewed

The scourge scraped clean

The Capitol prevails

Oaths honored

A virus suddenly appeared from the East

Causing death and destruction in each country it reached

It started in China, and before anyone knew

Spread to Korea, Spain, and Italy too

It was then called a pandemic, how quickly it spread

First hit old people, then all people, left many dead

No country was prepared for the necessary tasks

Shortages of everything, such as surgical masks

Not enough doctors, nurses and hospitals too

People are worried how we'll ever get through

We need more gowns, rubber gloves, and kits for testing

Ventilators, hand sanitizers, and beds for resting

We're short of so much, no country prepared

From young to the old, leaving everyone scared

A wise man appeared, Dr. Fauci, in the U.S.

He tells us the science behind this virus

What we must do to make this plague leave

 

The restrictions are strict and daily we grieve

No hugging or kissing or any contact

"If you get too close, I'll have to fight back"

 

"Social distancing" it's called, "Stay away six feet

Otherwise this virus will never be beat"

People were told to scrub their hands

Twenty seconds or more is the demand

Sanitizers were used to scrub down the house

"Don't touch your face, eyes, nose or mouth"

Walking outside is always permitted

However remember to keep your distance

Companies converted to help win this race

To make surgical masks at a great pace

Stores closed around us, no restaurants, no bars

No libraries or gyms, or even the parks

Schools had to close, kids had to study

Only with family, never a buddy

Thank goodness the food stores were open, to help

However, many necessities flew off the shelves

No wipies, towels, no toilet paper

"Come back again, we'll stock up later"

No airlines will fly, no sports to play

Everything's closed down, even Broadway

Have you ever heard of Disney Parks closed?

And movie houses to add to our woes

The only things left to help us feel free

Are texting, phone calling, and watching T.V.

We don't know how this darn thing will end

Meanwhile our neighbors become our friends.

 

We all should be happy with Zoom

We're no longer alone in a room

We could learn with just one

Or one hundred and one

To help beat this pandemic gloom

 

We all should be happy with Zoom

We're no longer alone in a room

Your family's suddenly there

With virtual cocktails to share

To help beat this pandemic gloom
We all should appreciate Zoom

We're no longer alone in a room

You can wear your old clothes

Because nobody knows

To help beat this pandemic gloom

When the world is filled with doom

You want to shake this virus gloom

Make some space within a room

Just lift up your feet and dance

 

Use some music with a quick beat

Jazz and mambo would be neat

Do what you can to beat defeat

Just lift up your feet and dance

 

2020 is our virus year

Your friends and family need some cheer

We want the virus to disappear

Meanwhile lift your feet and dance.

Thanks to the virus Covid-19

The days have a sameness, or so it seems.

Rise early, read papers, stretch, and wash,

Then feed the cat and have a quick nosh

After which comes walk number 1:

Forty-five minutes at not quite a run.

 

After the walk it’s time to eat:

Citrus and yogurt, with bread that’s whole wheat,

Some veggies and fruit; must limit the sweets.

Then it’s off to check e-mail or some work to do

After which lunch, and then walk number 2.

Once back from the walk I can finally read

Although chores or activities may intercede.

 

Do economics or play the piano,

Read a textbook or watch a video.

If drowsiness comes, take a short forty winks

Then back to reading, perhaps with a drink.

If hunger arises, there’s time for a snack

To be followed by walking to the next cul-de-sac.

Then back to reading, or writing, or working online

Beware of Facebook, which can take too much time.

 

When dinner time comes, we can choose what to eat:

Fish or chicken or beef, all to reheat

Accompanied by vegetables and some more bread

With blessings before and afterward said.

Another walk follows, and then back inside,

Watch a play or a concert, call friends, or just hide.

 

By 9:30 or 10, with eyes getting droopy,

It’s time for bed, before becoming loopy.

Turn off the computer, brush teeth and take pills,

Then under the covers and ward off the chills.

 

Though the days have a pattern, some are unique:

With activities the schedule will tweak.

On Mondays, up early, to the cleaners before 9,

To collect things the same day, all ironed quite fine.

Monday evening is trash time, so search far and wide:

Empty baskets and cat litter, then put trash cans outside.

Wednesday evenings a ZOOM call, 6:30 to near 8,

For the Singapore minyan – which we hope won’t run late.

On Fridays, a mad rush to prepare for Shabbos,

Sheets and towels must be washed

Before maids clean and polish.

Friday night we light candles, have kiddush and challah,

Eat dinner, chant birkat, brush teeth, and read parashah.

Saturday, I rise early to walk and eat quickly

Before services on ZOOM, a short chat, and ha-motzi.

The rest of the day is at leisure: walk, read, and have dinner

Then ZOOM once more for Havdalah – just five minutes, a winner.

 

And throughout it all, I’m blessed with my wife

In the house, for company and to sweeten life.

As a pair we go shopping, run errands, and talk,

Watch TV (she more than I) and perhaps jointly walk.

With our son living nearby, working late or at home,

And a daughter and son-in-law we can contact by phone

We feel lucky indeed. We wish others the same:

A life full of meaning and health, free from pain.

What’s underneath the mask?

Dare I ask, and hope

To find eyes that reflect the soul.

Eyes that are a window

Letting in the light of reason

Probing our assumptions

Grappling with hard truths.

The barriers we create are man and woman made

The masks we hide behind obscure our true intentions

Do we wear them to protect our community,

Our friends and relatives

Or do we fear the scourge we ourselves unleash

The promise of hope springs eternal

Spirits rising

Spreading peace and justice

Sharing the fruits of the earth.

A better world

One day together

Striving for the light

Preventing despair, sickness and famine

One planet waking up

We are all in this together

All connected

Through our dreams

Facing the future

By Marcia Lawson

As a child I looked longingly at the gray skies of Winter for any hint of
blue with billowy wide clouds to reveal the first signs of Spring. Our home
was just steps away from a city park with a ballfield on one side of a gravel
path and swing sets and climbing structures, known as jungle gyms to test
our strength and courage, on the other. During the winter, the ballfield was
transformed into an ice skating pond. To arrive at the park, I needed only to
cross one residential street and then walk down the gravel path just steps
away from the front door of our duplex.

When the ice melted on the “seasonal” pond, we knew that Spring was
on the way. Once again on the playground equipment, I would fly high in the
swing and leap off to show my bravery. I would climb and jump from the
highest bars of the jungle gym and endured scrapes and skinned knees as
badges of my courage. Often my sister would join me on my trips to the
park, but when alone in late Spring and early Summer, I would do what had
been forbidden to us and climb the mulberry bushes to retrieve sweet
purplish unwashed berries to pop in my mouth. For this transgression, I
would never repent, but I am now scrupulous about washing every piece of
fruit and vegetable that enters our home.

As I grew older and was nearing the end of grammar school, the park
offered new opportunities for fun by joining with others in Tug of War and
vying to be King of the Mountain on the sloping hills that surrounded this
park. These outdoor activities were spontaneous and unsupervised as we
only needed to check in periodically and be home at meal times.

The trust our parents had in our environmental seems miraculous to
me now. Our home was only one long city block from Dodge Street, which is
the main East–West Street in Omaha, Nebraska. Numbered as U.S. Route 6,
the street starts in Downtown Omaha and connects to West Dodge Road just
west of 78th Street. From there, it continues westward for miles through the
remainder of Douglas County, one of the nation's major metropolitan areas
along the Missouri River, with Omaha as its largest city. Our home was on
34 th Street—far from the edge of town then or now.

I cherish these memories of the innocence and freedom to be
spontaneous and playful. We also were fortunate to have a grammar school
just a couple of blocks away. Thus, the neighborhood children were all
familiar faces as were their mothers and fathers, many of whom volunteered
at our school and opened their homes to us.
The interactions described were part of an urban, rather than, a
suburban environment. Everything was close at hand, including numerous
Mom-and-Pop stores at the top of the path through the park. At one point in
time, there was a small movie theatre, a variety store, a drug store, bakery,
and small café. Most of these businesses were owned by people who lived in
the neighborhood.

We left that neighborhood when I was a teenager, although my family
retained ownership of this duplex property that supplemented their income.
Over the years this area, which was walking distance to downtown Omaha,
deteriorated―but was later revitalized into a vibrant, urban family-friend
space, just as it was in my childhood.

By Marcia Lawson

Our daughter Sarah and son-in-law Elliot introduced our granddaughter Sophie to the magic of Peter and the Wolf via an iPad computer. She loved the version they found for her and would ask us, Poppy and Bubbe, to find this wonder on my iPad. I searched and found on-line a video of the Boston Youth Orchestra version that had been posted on October 26, 2021, during the dark days of COVID. Under 28 minutes in length, it kept our then two-year-old granddaughter totally enthralled. At her request, I have now enjoyed this video dozens of times over the past six months. Her enchantment with this piece began in early 2023 and never waned.

As fall was approaching, we learned that we were invited to join Sophie and her parents, along with one of her special friends and his parents, at a production of Peter and the Wolf  for Young Audiences at the Kennedy Center, in one of the intimate REACH spaces. We arrived early as our tickets stated that seating was open. Much to our surprise, the open seating was on a large shag carpet spread over the floor of an intimate theater space. The house was packed as tickets had sold out weeks before. We found a spot close to the raised stage area that would accommodate the five of us with ample space for Sophie’s friend and his parents.

Once the lights dimmed, five musicians took their place on the stage. Each instrument represented a character in this wondrous tale by Sergei Prokofiev. The musicians were joined by a small troupe of actors, some holding hand puppets, who thoroughly engaged and enthralled the audience, from the youngest to the oldest in attendance. The actors gently interacted with audience members much to the delight of everyone.
At the end of the performance, the young audience members were invited to meet the actors and musicians and to touch and learn about the instruments, from the shiny flute to the tall and handsome bassoon. It was a special day for Elliot as well since he had been the featured bassoonist playing the part of the Grandfather in his youth orchestra production of Peter and the Wolf. As this activity was winding down, recorded music swelled up and scarfs were handed out to the young audience members to encourage them to swirl and twirl to lovely melodies. They swayed their tiny bodies and furled the scarfs above their heads. These sweet children shared the space, exchanged scarfs, and offered tiny helping hands as well as the joyous sound of communal laughter.

When the event ended, I found I wanted to cling to this magical moment and was thrilled when Sophie found two new friends, twins who had attended the performance, to frolic with outside the theater. I know that as Sophie grows older, this experience may become a dim memory for her―but that won’t be the case for my husband and me, at least I hope so.

Last night I started listening to the book Shanda : a Memoir of Shame and Secrecy by Lettie Cottin Pogrebin.

As I listened, the following epigraphs made an immediate impression on me.

Everyone has three lives:

a public life,

a private life,

and a secret life.

Gabriel García Márquez

There is no agony

like bearing an untold story inside you.

Zora Neale Hurston

You’ve got to speak your shame.

Brené Brown

So, you may ask, how does this relate to this month’s prompt – A Summer to Remember?

Well, last week I attended my 50th class reunion at Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, Minnesota.

In the schedule of events, I noticed a 9 a.m. session on Saturday morning entitled

Write your Life Story. Professor Lawrence Owen Will Help You Get Started!

Since he was my freshman English professor 50 years ago, of course I attended!

Here are the six tips he gave us:

Start writing!
Accept what comes! Kill the censor!  (g. your mother looking over your shoulder!)
Don’t fret about structure! (write bits & pieces…start anywhere)
Read aloud what you’ve written.
Read memoirs, journals, diaries (just as you would watch a good golfer to learn how to play golf)
Get together with others. Help each other.

He asked us several questions as prompts.

What is one thing about you that one hundred years from now, you want people to know about you?

[I decided that the main thing I would want people to know is that I was a baby boomer born in a town of “4,000 Friendly People”(as the sign outside city limits said) -- Benson, Minnesota.]

Write about a person who made a significant difference in your life.

To break the ice, Prof. Owen told us about when he first came to teach at Gustavus in 1963 and met Gerhard Alexis, the chairman of the English department .  Dr. Alexis said “Welcome to the conversation!  Remember, you have a vote in this department.”  Larry Owen interpreted this to mean that he was free to speak his mind, even as a newcomer to the department.  Reflecting on this 50 years later, he said there was a sense of trust that he appreciated.

As I reflected on his words, I realized that I too had felt that same trust in the Biology department, where I spent most of my time.

Later in the session, I asked him about this sense of trust.

Q: What if -- later in life -- that trust is betrayed?

A:  You need to write about it.

Q: What if you don’t want your children and your grandchildren to know about it?

A:  You need to write about it.

So that is why I think this will be a Summer to Remember.  There are signs that now is the time to start writing:  1) attending Larry Owen’s talk on how to get started writing your life story;

2) reading “Shanda : a Memoir of Shame and Secrecy” for the next meeting of the J Book Group; and best of all, 3) joining the J’s Memoir Writing Group and meeting monthly via Zoom to read, listen and respond to stories that group members have written and wish to share.

The summer of 1973 was memorable for our Nation and for the newlywed Lawson’s. We were about to start on a new adventure as Michael pursued his PhD and I found employment to support my husband’s academic goals. Thankfully we were dreamy eyed, optimistic, and enthralled by the idea of the intrinsic value of knowledge for its own sake and a life in academia. Such thoughts do much to sustain the childless, carefree young.

It was the summer of the Watergate hearings and I was glued to the television for many hours a day. The fact that we had voted for George McGovern – along with less than 40 percent of the US population –illustrates our hopeful idealism, a modicum of which we embrace to this day. We were living in my hometown of Omaha, Nebraska, then and now, a blue dot in a red sea of Nebraska politics.

The Watergate hearings did vindicate our decision to vote for McGovern. Years later, we would worship in a synagogue in Aberdeen, South Dakota, that had previously been the church at which McGovern’s father was a minister. As a young naïve recent bride, I could not have foreseen the journey we would take after Michael pursued his PhD in New Mexico.

As we were anxious to stockpile savings to help us through our unknown future, we were delighted when a faculty member asked us to housesit―rent-free―over the summer months before our departure to the Southwest. The house was in the Dundee area of

Omaha, a lovely, established community of stately and elegant brick colonials neither ostentatious nor trendy. Our across the street neighbor was Warren Buffett. Although we never saw him, we were thrilled to be that close to this financial wizard.

Our temporary residence was lovely, with stairs from the hallway ascending to the second floor and a separate set of back stairs for the nonexistent staff. The rooms were beautifully furnished with many antique pieces and oriental rugs.

Michael decided to drive a cab that summer to earn some money for graduate school to supplement his teaching assistantship and GI bill benefits. I would receive my final salary payment in June from the University of Nebraska at Omaha, where I had been an instructor in the English Department. So, a job-free summer awaited me for the first time since I was a preteen. Although I had no idea what lay ahead, I knew I needed to improve my typing skills. As you may recall, the year I am describing is 1973!

In addition to watching John Dean, George and Martha Mitchell, and a cast of other Watergate characters caught up in their zealous fight against liberalism, I enjoyed reading, cooking, and trying to maintain some semblance of cleanliness in our massive temporary abode. This home was quite a contrast to the dwellings we would inhabit over the next four plus years, including a charming, but crumbling, adobe bungalow near a trailer park, and a small unit in a four-plex building. By carefully juggling our finances, we ended our Albuquerque stay in a semi-luxurious two-bedroom apartment in the foothills in Northeast Albuquerque.

From our vantage point in the summer of ‘73, we could not have foreseen the friends we would meet, the adventures we would have camping in New Mexico and Colorado, or the wonderful synagogue we would join, Congregation Albert, founded in 1897. It is the oldest continuing Jewish organization in New Mexico.  Membership in this shul lead to many opportunities, from a brief career in a retail bridal department to becoming a B’Nai Birth Girls advisor, known by its acronym BBG. This chapter in the American Southwest was aptly named Las Hermanitas (Little Sisters) BBG. Clearly this brief story affirms the wisdom of the Yiddish saying–Man Plans and G-d Laughs.

A visit to Israel will include many memorable meals as the country has ample, high-quality seafood, fruits, vegetables, breads, and pastries.  Locally produced Medjool dates, eggs, and dairy products are among the most delicious food I have eaten anywhere, including Paris.

We landed in Tel Aviv and stayed in a hotel overlooking a beach on the Mediterranean Sea. Our jet lag slowly dissipated as we strolled through the city, sampling delicious local favorites such as shakshuka and sumptuous salads at restaurants on the beach and ice cream at more than one of the Golda locations. On our first visit to Neve Zedek to see the old Train station (HaTachanah), we stopped for dolmas and grilled halloumi salad at one of many restaurants and shops in this area. The station is what remains of the first railroad line in the Middle East that opened in 1891 and closed in 1948.

Adjusting our sunhats and reapplying our sunscreen, we walked to the port of Jaffa and back, a distance of seven plus miles. After this trek, we bought hummus, melon, yogurts, and pastry at a local market and enjoyed our evening meal on the balcony of our hotel room. We took many leisurely strolls on the beach as most days the temperature was in the 70s and 80s, and we joined many others in the pastime of watching the throngs of fit and energetic soccer and volleyball players. We assume that the physical strength and agility of these men and woman was enhanced by mandatory military service as well as a diet rich in fruits and vegetables.

Two exceptional tour guides helped us explore this beautiful and diverse country. For the first three days of our six-day tour, we were accompanied by Ellen Rif. She holds a master’s degree in Middle East studies and politics and lives on a kibbutz near Eilat where Medjool dates are produced. Ellen drove us to sites between Tel Aviv and the north of Israel, the Galilee including Caesarea, Haifa with a stop at the B’hai Gardens, and Akko with its history of the Knight Templars essential to the Crusaders.

Although we have visited the British Museum, I had never walked though such ancient sites with the exception of Chaco Canyon in New Mexico, where more than 70 campsites are carbon-dated to the period 7000–1500 BC and   Mesa Verde in Colorado, where Ancestral Pueblo people built thriving communities on the mesas and in the cliffs. To touch the pillars, walls, and mosaics of antiquity was thrilling.

The tour company arranged for our accommodations in a Swiss Chalet Cottage in Amirim with beautiful views of the Galilee and a sumptuous Israeli breakfast delivered to our door both mornings. A large plastic container contained yogurts, jams, breads, fish, hummus, salads, and pastries. Should we return to Israel, I will pack my own containers so that I leave none of these luscious dishes to be tossed or composted. It is worth noting that this meal was prepared in a local kitchen and delivered to us by the husband of the chef.

Our next day began in the beautiful white and blue city of Tsfat, a feast for the eyes and the soul. At one of the beautifully painted synagogues, we met a gentleman who had made Aliyah from London. He delighted in showing us how to read between the lines of the text to see an inner, mystical meaning, in each letter. From this city central to cabalism, we journeyed to two major Christian sites: the Mount of the Beatitudes, from which Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount, and Capernaum, which is an important Jewish site as well.

On the way to these sacred places, we saw lines at a kosher chicken shawarma stand beside the road in Migdal and knew we had to stop. We were not disappointed with these pitas overflowing with spicy chicken and pickles, simply delicious!!!

Capernaum offers one of many examples of the confluence of sites sacred to more than one faith tradition. Capernum is where Jesus established his base and gathered his disciples, and it is also the site of the ancient Kfar Nahum community whose synagogue remains belong to the later Byzantine era, the 4th to 5th century AD.

We ended the day in the Golan Heights on Mt. Bental with its great panoramic views of the Golan where three countries meet: Israel, Syria, and Lebanon. This overlook at Israel’s geopolitical situation also is the site of a tank battle between Israel and Syria during the Yom Kippur War in 1973. The Israeli army suffered many casualties but prevailed over the larger and far better equipped Syrian forces. Armed metal statues on the mountain-top bunker commemorate this event. It is both a moving and chilling experience as you feel you could reach out and touch these other countries.

The next morning we headed for the Jordan River Valley and Judean Dessert. A memorable experience was our stop for lunch at the Tal Dan nature reserve. We enjoyed smoked trout salad and watched the fish in the Dan Stream swim by. We concluded our day at the beautiful Greek Orthodox St. Gerasimos Monastery in the Wadi Qelt near Jericho, a city now part of the Palestinian Authority. This also was our closest look at the role of the authority and our opportunity to view Israeli settlements and Palestinian settlements and shanty towns.

In preparation for Israel’s Independence Day, many restaurants in Jerusalem would not be open for dinner. So, Ellen took us to a supermarket and again we dined on a variety of the yogurts, fruits, and breads that are the hallmarks of the simple and delicious Israeli cuisine. We stayed at the Leonardo Boutique Hotel near Jaffa Street and enjoyed a sumptuous breakfasts on two mornings. As I took my Medjool dates each morning, I hoped these had been produced on the kibbutz where Ellen lives.

Our guide for the next half of our tour was the renowned archeologist Avner Goren. I looked forward to sharing with Ila his first question to us: “Had we read Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad, particularly the section on Jerusalem?” Thanks to Ila’s husband David, we had done so.

We began discovering Jerusalem at the Jewish Archeological Park walking through the remains of the second temple and the partially reconstructed labyrinth of Byzantine dwellings. Avner noted that our observance of Tisha B’av, commemoration of the destruction of the first and second temple, should be more profound for us this year now that we had seen the rubble. Leaning against the Western Wall, the Kotel, I felt very close to my mother whose Yahrzeit was during our trip to Israel. Rather than pray at the Wall, I felt overcome with a need to simply chat with Mom.

As we explored fortresses, Avner delighted in pointing out secret panels in the doors that offered easy escape and he still marveled at the beautiful mosaics that had survived for centuries. He has been an archeologist for nearly 50 years, including at Mt. Sinai for 15 years living among the Bedouin, but he clearly never lost his sense of wonder.

Many sites we visited illustrated the hubris of those who had come to conquer this land, the Ottomans, the Romans, the Turks, and the Crusaders, with remnants of walls from each failed conquest remaining next to or as extensions of each other. Avner’s wisdom also included knowing the best spice and fruit markets to stroll through and where to get kosher ravoli and ceasar salad fit for royalty.

On our second day in Jerusalem we walked the Via Dolorosa as Jesus had done, with Avner explaining there were as many sects of Judaism at that time as parties in the Knesset. As a seventh generation resident of Jerusalem, he had roamed these sites daily from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to the Mount of Olives, where notable Jewish religious and political leaders have been buried for centuries. We could not anticipate how fortunate we were to see sites through his perceptive and peace-loving eyes and to learn of his efforts to bridge the Israeli-Arab divide.

On our last day in Jerusalem, we able to visit Yad Vashem before heading to Masada, and Avner invited Anat Cohen, the mother of two of his four children, to serve as our guide. She directed us to what was most different from the Holocaust Museum in D.C. We focused on the Avenue of the Righteous with its statues of heroic Christians and moved on to the Hall of Remembrance. The floor of this room is engraved with the names of the 22 most infamous Nazi murder sites. A Ner Tamid, an eternal flame, is the centerpiece of this room providing light against this darkness. We also visited the solemn Children’s Memorial where the names, ages, and country of origin of the 1.5 million children killed in the Holocaust are recited in English, Hebrew, and Yiddish.

At last we headed to Masada with Avner’s Palestinian-Israeli friend Ali as our driver. We took the cable car to the top and walked through the ruins of the magnificent castle complex build by Herod the Great, King of Judea, who ruled from 37 to 4 BC. When the ancient Romans overtook Judea in the first century A.D., the grounds became a fortress for the Jewish people and ultimately the site of a mass suicide by Jewish rebels opposing Hellenistic forces. We spend time exploring water and bath systems, marvels of engineering expertise.

Following the end of our tour, we stayed at the beautiful Ein Gedi Resort Kibbutz near the Dead Sea. We enjoyed a traditional Shabbos dinner featuring fork-tender pot roast and brandied fruit compote that brought back memories of this treat being served in the social hall of the synagogue of my youth more than 60 years ago. The breakfast the next morning was as magnificent as the botanical gardens, animals, and streams that drew us there. I regret we didn’t plan for a more extended stay.

Following our six-day tour of the country, we returned to Tel Aviv. We rested from our travels and dined on the beach sampling salads and pizza. We walked on Rothschild Boulevard admiring the Bauhaus architecture and dined again in Neve Tzedek, this time at a wonderful Italian Restaurant. We decided to spend our last day at the Tel Aviv Art Museum. The modern building is beautiful and the exhibits were innovative and imaginative, drawing us back in time from the marvels we had visited.

We were scheduled to take this trip in 2019 and are grateful to finally have had this awe-inspiring glance at the beautiful and diverse country of Israel and its remarkable cuisine.

In the mid-1970s I worked as a pediatric nurse practitioner at a comprehensive outpatient clinic at St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children in North Philadelphia.

On many mornings, some of my co-workers and I would meet in the cafeteria for coffee before the start of our workday.

The group usually consisted of Cruz, a Puerto Rican woman who worked as a nursing assistant, Lynn, a Black woman who worked as a community health worker, Ann, a white woman who was a social work assistant and me.

It was probably a Monday morning, and as it got closer to 9 a.m. we talked about how we just didn’t feel like leaving the relaxation of our coffee time in the cafeteria and going to our clinic.

Then Cruz said, “You know, if I were my mother, I’d have to go out and cut sugar cane.”  Lynn chimed in, “If I were my mother, I would have to go into a field and pick cotton.”  Ann added, “If I were my mother, I’d have to go stock the shelves in the family dry goods store. “And I remembered that my mother had worked in a factory not far from this very hospital.

I said, “Oh my goodness, if I were my mother, I’d have to go around the corner to 4th and Cumberland to the Cumberland Knitting Mills and spend the day punching buttonholes in sweaters! “We looked at one another and then, almost as a group we rose, and said, “Let’s get to our work in the clinic!”

We had realized how very far we had come and how lucky we were.

My sister Mrinalini has for the past 25 years lived her summers in Germany and her winters in Bangalore, in south India, where I would meet her whenever I traveled to India. The past two years of pandemic decisively ended my husband’s and my long-standing practice of visiting India each winter.  As a result, I had not visited India for three years and it had been nearly that long since my sister and I had last met at her home in Germany.  Of course, it is not unusual for family members not to have visited one another during the pandemic.  But most of us had derived comfort from being able to share a household with our spouse or a child or friends, thereby lessening the hardship and relieving the loneliness.  In my sister’s case, the pandemic came suddenly while she was in India and unable to return to Germany due to restrictions.  My sister, aware of India’s massive population and legendary indiscipline in crowded situations, and recognizing her own several health vulnerabilities, had imposed on herself the most stringent isolation measures in her city of over 12 million people. So, there she remained in Bangalore to face Covid alone for two and a half years with no face-to-face contact with any family member.

In mid-February, I got the news that my sister had had a stroke and was admitted to a hospital in Bangalore.  To me there was no question but that I needed to be with her, and so within a few days of hearing the news, my husband and I, who had not traveled more than 20 miles from home since the pandemic began, booked our flights to India.

Both my husband and I had received our two vaccines as well as our first booster shots.  Furthermore, the latest news reports seemed to indicate Omicron was beginning to recede both in India and the U.S.  Still there were many questions we wrestled with — did we dare to undertake a trip to India when there were still so many unknowns, and should we trust the reports we were getting about the improving situation in Bangalore?  There were also logistical issues depending on which airline we decided to travel on.  We had to know the prevailing pandemic protocols in India, the US and in Germany, our country of transit., since we ended up buying tickets on Lufthansa. We nervously filled out numerous online forms in keeping with the policies of the three countries involved, in addition to making sure we carried hard copies of each document required at points of arrival and departure at each of the three airports.  It was not without some satisfaction that we noted that all the paperwork was thoroughly scrutinized in all three countries and proved to be worth the trouble.

Much to our surprise, Lufthansa flight from Washington to Frankfurt was packed, while Frankfurt to Bangalore was close to capacity.  Masks were strictly enforced on board Lufthansa on both segments of our long flights, even to the extent of waking sleeping passengers if masks had slipped down.  As usual, we landed in Bangalore bleary-eyed and barely functioning having journeyed 30 hours since leaving our Annandale home, and very much aware that we had yet to face the dreaded long lines in Indian immigration. It felt good to crash into my sister’s empty apartment in the wee hours of the morning.

The next day we hurried to the huge bustling hospital situated in one of the busiest intersections of Bangalore.  It was business as usual with streets full of people and vehicles inching along in massive traffic.  The only clear evidence that something had changed was the almost total compliance with the local mask mandate.  It took no time before our fears of being in India during Covid began to ease, and soon we felt reasonably safe moving about the city and diving into the crowded lobby of the hospital.  The only exception was when we travelled to my sister’s room on the 11th floor each day in tightly packed elevators which, in typical Indian fashion, would stop on each floor and welcome additional passengers when you thought surely not one more body could be squeezed in. (It was reminiscent of the classic state room scene in the Marx Brothers film “A Night at the Opera”.)  It was surreal and yet oddly comforting that India was still the same after two years of Covid.  We showed up at the hospital everyday as long as my sister remained there – the first two weeks after our arrival.  We stayed with her and watched as she gradually returned from a state of confusion, unmoored between past and present, between reality and delusion.  By the time we brought her home to her apartment, she had nearly regained her former self.

Our three-week stay sped by quickly as I plunged myself into activities centered around my sister’s needs ranging from meetings with doctors and others related to her health care to running shopping errands to keep her supplied with mundane necessities such as a new pair of glasses to indulging her growing desire for her favorite Gujarati snacks.  It is ironic that in Bangalore - one of India’s foremost high-tech centers - residents like my sister who have not mastered the mechanics of online shopping have had to resort to a visit from a long-absent sister living half a world away to bring products to her door.

We returned home exhausted but fully gratified that we acted swiftly and decisively on our gut feeling that the India trip was the right thing to do at the right time.  The payoff is the psychological release from our Covid driven fears which had prevented us from considering even domestic flights for the past two years.  I am grateful that we stepped out of our comfort zone and took on the challenge of travelling all the way to India and back.

Unfortunately, my sister is back in the same hospital as of Friday for yet another of her multiple health conditions, but this time, hopefully, her stay is brief and without crisis.  I am not about to rush back to India soon, but, if I do, I know it is a decision I no longer need to dread because of Covid.

One of my strongest memories is my trip to Israel as a foreign correspondent in 1978. Of the many adventures I had the one that made an indelible impression was a guided hike to the pinnacle of Masada. Stretching toward the sky, the mountain loomed high like a giant albatross.  Carried back in time, I recalled the tragic history of the mountain fortress built by Herod the Great in 31 BC above the Dead Sea in Israel. Inside the fortress erected to withstand sieges were rooms to store food, cisterns to hoard water, and impenetrable walls to ward off attackers

We set out at dawn carrying a bottle of water and oranges. Along the winding snake path that twisted and turned up the mountain, the air grew thinner the higher we climbed. When I finally reached the top of the 1,300 -foot mountain and joined the group in an amphitheater set in a circle of hard stone benches, the full import of the life and death decision the Jewish inhabitants faced in 70 AD hit me like a tidal wave. Besieged and outnumbered by the Roman troops who threw torches and launched cannons against the mountain fortress 73 AD, the Jewish Zealots, exiled from Jerusalem, faced a difficult decision. The head of each family drew straw lots to cast their votes—to die as free men or face the prospect of fighting to the death with survivors destined to live the rest of their lives as slaves to the Romans.

When the Romans overwhelmed the Zealots and their families, they found 953 people had perished in a mass suicide. By hiding in a cistern, two women and five children survived to tell the story.  We know from the remains that the settlers did not die from starvation during the siege because storage silos still had wheat. Traces of the murals etched on the stone floors of Herod’s palace and fortress still remain, testament to a Roman culture that produced these monumental works of art.

The wind still whistles among the ancient rocks, eagles continue to soar overhead but all that is left is the silence, a timeless reminder of the violent clash of warriors on a battlefield high in the sky. Today Israeli soldiers swear an oath to serve their country by climbing to the top of Masada to remind them of the sacrifice their ancestors made thousands of years ago.

As we struggle in the 2022 to preserve our democracy I wonder about our legacy. Will we become enslaved to our possessions, watch as our freedom of choice is diminished, lose our right to vote in a fair and free election? Will we turn a blind eye to the corruption of elected officials? How can we best defend ourselves and preserve life on our planet? Our actions today will have consequences for the next generation. We are at the tipping point.

My happiest childhood memories are recalled as happening under an eggshell blue sky filled with huge white puffy clouds. That is the sky that is high above my head in this memory and others from reading Nancy Drew on our front porch to biking to visit a friend.

This recollection occurred on Sunday afternoons during mild weather when my father, sister, and I walked many city blocks, more than a half mile, to visit his Uncle Ben Morris, my great uncle, and his second wife Rose. Ben had immigrated in the early 1900s and found success in this new land. He and Rose lived in what I thought was the essence of elegance, an apartment overlooking Turner Park. This seven and a half-acre park is located in an urban setting off the major thoroughfare of Farnam Street in Omaha, Nebraska. These visits were planned, not casual drop-ins, but rather occasions.

My mother dressed my sister and me in outfits suitable for a special event such as a birthday party or excursion to shop downtown. On this particular day, my sister Linda and I were dressed in matching skirts and peasant blouses with shoes shined and hairdos secured by barrettes. My sister’s curls bounced close to her shoulders and my wavy hair tended to fall in my eyes.  So mom took care to style each head of hair in a flattering fashion. These skirts were unique as my mother made them from a fabric designed with miniature peanut vendor stands to form the cheerful print. We loved to swirl and twirl as the skirts encouraged a sense of grace and freedom. My father was attired properly for a gentleman in the 1950s, with a lightweight suit, polished wingtips, and a gray straw hat with a jaunty brim.

This special time for the three of us to spend together included walking from our home up a steep street and crossing two major thoroughfares. The first roadway we crossed was Dodge Street, which runs through the length of the city of Omaha and serves as the route for the bus line. Facing us as we crossed Dodge was the Mutual of Omaha Headquarters building. After walking a block or so, we arrived at Farnam Street. This street also is a major artery and until 1955 served as the route for the Streetcar Line, which was demolished in Omaha as in many other major cities. After we had made it safely across Farnam, it was a downhill stroll for several blocks until we arrived at Turner Park and crossed this green space to arrive at the entrance to Uncle Ben’s and Aunt Rose’s dark brick apartment building. We always made a brief stop in the park at the miniature Statue of Liberty that was near its center. My Dad simply pointed out this replica and provided no commentary as for him America had been challenging. He immigrated in 1920 at the age of 10 to begin a new life in a land where he knew none of the customs or the language.

Once we were ushered through the Morris’s front door, we were seated in their lovely living room that included many marvels. On one of the tables sat a large beautiful white bowl filled with fruit that looked delicious but was never offered to us. The reason was simple, the apples, pears, and bananas carefully arrayed were made of wax. On another table there were roses suspended in a liquid inside a glass globe that rested on a dark wooden base. These roses retained their luxurious blossoms because they floated in a bath of ethylene glycol, glycerin, or formaldehyde and thus would never die.

I know we ate cookies on proper china plates with a flowered pattern and were careful with each bit so as neither to drop the plate nor cause crumbs to scatter onto the carpet. The furniture was beautifully upholstered and the Mahogany shone but there were no toys for us so the visits were never lengthy. Although I am certain we were asked about our school work and hobbies, what I recall most clearly is the joy my father took in being with family who invited him in with hugs and kisses in a land that was often very alien and unwelcoming to him. These walks have remained in the memories of my sister and me, and I am grateful that I can share these recollections with her.

March 2, 2021

I honestly think my best education was what I learned from my elementary school years. I was open-minded and interested in everything, and I learned from everyone around me. My mother taught me to be honest, not to lie or steal, and not to say bad words. If I did something wrong, she would tell my father to spank me, and if I said something bad, she would put pepper on my tongue. That was my worst punishment, because it took such a long time to get the nasty, stinging taste out of my mouth.

My father did many activities with me, creating interests I still have today. He read me books and took me to the library to get my first library card. He helped me with my homework, especially math, and he taught me how to take pictures through the microscope. With that skill I won a first place in the D.C. science fair in botany.

He took me on my first airplane trip to California to visit my uncle and my cousins, and he taught me I didn’t have to be perfect to earn his love by rewarding me with a five dollar bill when I got a D on an algebra test. “Everybody is human and makes mistakes,” he told me. I learned about being a ham radio operator from my father whose call letters were W3PPQ, and every year I accompanied him to the annual ham fest. Many years I took part in their contest of meeting the most people from different places. It was fun for me to talk to the visitors and asked them where they were from. Several years I was the winner. It could have the beginning of my interest in interviewing people like a journalist I wanted to become.

My grandmothers taught me to speak Yiddish, how to make Jewish foods, and they showed me how much a grandmother loves her grandchildren which I appreciate even more at my age. My Bubbe Mollie, was Polish and spoke in a polish dialect. To Mollie, a kugel was a “keegel.” Mother grandmother, Sophie, was a Litvak and said “Koogel.” They each made different kinds of foods, but it was all delicious. Sophie cooked gefilte fish, borsht, and chopped liver. Mollie made kasha varnishkes, or bowtie noodles and cereal grains with gravy, and at Passover, she make crispy matzoh brie that I now make for my grandkids.

Even though my maternal grandmother never learned to read or write English, she taught me so much about being Jewish. She told me stories of how she grew up in a big family on a farm in Minsk, Belarus where her father was a butcher. She talked about her sisters and brothers who were also her playmates and how items around the farm, like animal bones, were her toys. Both of my grandmothers were tough women who rarely shed a tear in front of others and worked hard taking cooking and cleaning and taking care of everyone else.

I always loved my teachers who were often my role models. It is not surprising looking backward that I became a math teacher. I was a nurturer, but I did not know that when I was young. I have always liked children and animals and enjoyed babysitting younger kids and helping them learn and grow. I once found a baby bird that fell out of its nest and tried to nurse it back to health. I was the one who offered to help the new person in the classroom or befriend the person who had no other friends.

I always loved dogs, and wanted to have one, but it never worked out. When I was about nine, my father brought home a puppy that I named Beau. He was a little frisky inside, so I had to keep him on a rope attached to a clothesline in the back yard so he could only run back and forth along the line. When he became too aggressive, I had to give him away. I now own an adorable whitetoy poodle named Bella who is like another child. I continue to live out my childhood dreams with her, and no one can take her away from me.

My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Brearley was the most memorable. She introduced me to travel and writing and nourished my fantasies of being a writer and a world traveler. When she taught the class about London, she made the city come to life. I wanted take a boat ride on the Thames River and visit Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey where many English kings and writers are buried. I remember reading The Little Princesses, a book about the lives of Queen Elizabeth and her younger sister, Margaret Rose. I fell in love with them and wanted to live in Buckingham Palace too. I visited the palace with my young children and took a picture of them smiling next to the stone- faced. palace guards in front of the building.

On my first opportunity to travel abroad, I went to London with Helen, a college sorority sister. We traveled to England on the Queen Mary and spent six weeks living in London with her English uncle and aunt, Harry and Belle Kurtz. They were very hospitable and took us everywhere. They served English food at home and took us to pubs and restaurants where I tasted special dishes like English fish and chips.

I lived my dream of visiting London and the English countryside and explored London on foot and by bus and underground. I loved exploring the city on the underground, seeing museums, art galleries, and public parks and shopping at Harrods and Marks and Spensers, and It was exciting to see a real play at a London theater. While living in Heidelberg, Germany with the military years later, my husband and I took our children, Jordan and Stephanie, on a trip to London and the revisited Belle and Harry and their son, Alan, with his family. It was another childhood dream relived.

When I think about my legacy, I imagine it in terms of people not possessions. While I can appreciate a beautiful piece of jewelry, painting, family heirloom or antique, it doesn’t give me as much pleasure as reading my mother’s family journals that she began editing in 1972.

When I was growing up, I watched my mother type contributions to the Horowitz-Margareten Family Journal on an Olivetti manual typewriter and then mimeograph it for distribution to more than 500 relatives all over the world. Over time she would use a simple layout and then send it off to a printer to publish.  When I took over the editing job after she retired in 1992, I upgraded the format and worked with a desktop publisher to improve the graphic design. When she could no longer type the submissions and arrange the layout, she asked me to take it on. Subsequently, I took on the mantle of editing and publishing, and wrote a column for every issue over a ten-year period.

As I reviewed her columns I learned about family recipes, how a great uncle sponsored relatives from Hungary who wanted to immigrate to the United States, and how cousins survived concentration camps and were able to begin a new life here.

They persevered and branched out to the East and West, North and South to establish families of their own and enter the professions, build department stores, and become entrepreneurs. My mother meticulously noted on index cards each time a family member sent in a check to help sponsor an issue in honor of a marriage, birth, or birthday.

The culmination of her work on the journal was publishing an updated genealogy featuring a historical sketch of the founders, photographs, and genealogical charts showing the ancestry of the Horowitz and Margareten families who had immigrated to New York City from Hungary beginning in 1886. When she urged me to take on the project of editing the family journal she said, “You will never regret it, and you will stay connected to the family and will get out of it more than you put in.” How right she was.

It inspired me to plan an international family reunion in DC with the help of my aunts and cousins living in the area. The highpoint of the reunion came on a Friday night, there were 120 of us who stayed for the weekend at a nearby hotel. Each of us introduced ourselves at the Shabbat dinner at George Washington University Hillel and explained how we were related to the matriarch and founder, Reginia Horowitz Margareten. We commemorated my mother’s 20 years of service to the family and awarded her a plaque in honor of her contribution. The next day we had arranged for a private tour of the newly opened Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC. It was particularly meaningful because we had lost 122 family relatives in the Holocaust.

I will always remember the pleasant hours I spent with my mother learning about family history, addressing labels for the newsletter and seeing the smile on her face when she hugged the family members who came to attend the reunion.

In November 2020 we Americans turned out in record numbers to make our vote count.  In many of our minds, including my own, our commitment to democracy was being challenged as never before in our lifetimes.  We could not be indifferent about casting our vote; this time, it mattered, and we owed it not only to ourselves but to our children and grandchildren.  And so, we showed up in every state, in every precinct, in every district, all across America to make our voices heard.  As I watched this renewed commitment throughout the country to exercise one’s right to vote in 2020, I was transported back in time nearly 70 years, to India’s very first nation-wide election in 1951.  Like 2020 in America, there was at that time in India a palpable sense of purposeful engagement in this most basic ritual of democracy.  I remembered the electrifying energy that drove millions of Indians to the polls in 1951 as citizens of a newly independent democratic republic, at the same time as I witnessed the energy that propelled the voter turnout in America in 2020.

I was too young to vote in that unforgettable 1951 Indian election although I can clearly remember the euphoria and pride each Indian felt.  My family and I shared in the celebratory mood that swept the entire country, after a hard-fought independence movement against British rule.  For me it was intensely personal as my parents and grandparents and other members of my extended family had actively participated in nationwide protests against the British.  My grandfather went to jail for joining Gandhi’s call to defy the British through acts of civil disobedience.  My parents joined the boycott of factory-made British textiles by spinning “khadi” or self-made hand-woven cloth produced on a simple portable wheel – a symbolic ritual that became a daily fixture in my home, as it did across India.  For a wide-eyed child like myself, it was a heady experience to march alongside my parents and join local throngs in singing patriotic songs, or to sit packed closely against my mother at massive gatherings to hear Gandhi and other national leaders invoke the people to remain steadfast and united in their quest for independence.  My siblings and I listened intently to calls by these charismatic leaders to protest peacefully, insisting that the British “Quit India.”

Despite Gandhi’s calls for unity, however, we also found ourselves enveloped in a horrific trauma of events unleashed by the impending British decision to partition India into two nations along religious lines.  Calcutta, my city, had always been known for its harmonious blending of diverse religions, but as independence approached, it was caught up in the worst possible madness and violence – killing thousands, and forcing Hindus and Muslims out of their once peaceful neighborhoods to seek safe-havens among their co-religionists.  Alongside my memories of the inspiring moments of the independence movement, are recollections of that monumental tragedy in India’s history that became personal as my parents opened our home to Hindu “refugees” who were secretly spirited out of their endangered neighborhoods by my uncle and his team of brave young volunteers, accomplished at the risk of their own lives.  I remember shivering as I stood on our rooftop and watched smoke arising out of distant neighborhoods where fires raged and I heard the muffled cries of militants vowing revenge and death on one community or the other.  My child’s sense of security was further shaken a few months later by the news of Gandhi’s assassination -- not only because it was a national tragedy of epic proportion, but because Gandhi’s death was a personal loss for both my parents but particularly for my mother who had known him for decades as a father figure, especially after the loss of her own father in South Africa.

Gandhi’s death took place in January 1948, but in August 1947, we celebrated India’s independence.  My parents marked this historic occasion by sending my two older sisters (I was too young to make the trip) to New Delhi to witness first-hand the ceremony and celebration – a testament to my parents’ wish that their children fully embrace the occasion.  Four years later, India laid another cornerstone in its democracy by holding its first ever free election in 1951.  I was not old enough to vote, but I vividly recall my parents and all our neighbors and friends turning out to cast their votes as if it were a sacred duty.  Young and old, rich and poor, male and female – all across India people went to the polls- 173 million of them.  To a person, each one of them understood that this simple act was what democracy and freedom was all about.  I remember how proud people were to show off the indelible black ink stamped on their thumb to prove they had voted.

As I voted yet again as an American citizen in my local Virginia precinct this past November, memories of the 1951 Indian election washed over me. Today, I am equally proud of having exercised the power of my own vote to affirm my own commitment to democracy in the 2020 election, right here in America, as I was to watch my fellow Indian citizens do the same thing all those 70 years ago.

I looked forward with some trepidation to moving from Miami, Florida to Springfield, VA when the transfer notice from the Air Force came through for my husband.

After enrolling our two sons in new schools, I spent the first few weeks until our rental house was ready, encamped at the Chesapeake Bagel Factory at an outdoor table with our border collie Sam, in tow.

Once we moved in I began to think about finding a job and scanned the job opportunities in the local paper. I felt overqualified for many of the entry level jobs and underqualified for the ones that asked for several years of experience. In desperation I contacted the editorial staff at the regional Connection newspapers who liked my journalism background but could not meet my salary requirements for a feature editor.

Then I had an idea. I offered to do a feature story and said that if they accepted it, he could pay me as an independent freelancer while I continued my job search. The editor asked me to interview Dr. Jan Northrup, an educator who had just designed a program for working women and published a book titled ”The Promotable Woman, What Makes a Difference.”

During the interview she suggested I attend the seminars for federal women to get a better understanding of her program, and this assignment changed my life in ways I could never imagine. I learned that the ability to communicate with people from the mailroom to the executive offices was the key to success and career advancement. As the weeks went by, I became more confident, energized and focused on developing these essential skills.

When the article was published Dr. Northrup was extremely pleased and suggested I contact her public relations firm in Washington, DC to apply for a job as an account executive. She set up the interview, arranged for me to meet the vice president, and before I knew it, I began working for Clews Communications, The president let me know that Dr. Northrup wanted me assigned to her account so she could finish the book she was writing and promote her advice for working women in syndicated columns.

We met over coffee where I came equipped with tape recorder, pens and notebook.  I asked her how she would handle different situations that working women encountered, such as: What do you do when you’re stuck in traffic? How do you balance a career with raising a family? How do you advance your career?

These were questions I knew would arise for myself and for women reentering the workplace and seeking promotions. “What do you do when you are stuck in traffic on a highway and the driver in the car next to you gets frustrated and honks his horn?” I asked.  She replied: “Imagine the driver in the other car is wearing purple polka-dot shorts!”

I incorporated her advice in applying for my next job as a personnel consultant where I worked for 21 years and shared the advice she had given me with all my clients. I encouraged them to imagine each job as a building block that would give them a foundation to build their skills, and to treat each person with dignity and respect from the receptionist to the C-Suite executives.

When I was twenty-five, I got a job with American Home Products Corporation in their pharmaceutical advertising department on Third Avenue in Manhattan.

When I came for the interview Olivia came to greet me. She was extremely beautiful and had an other- worldly air like mad Ophelia in Hamlet. We conversed briefly and she handed me a sheet of paper whose text consisted of one long paragraph almost the length of the page. She said she wanted me to make all the necessary corrections, then she left the room and closed the door.

To my relief I saw that the text contained no mathematics, only descriptions of chemical terms, many of which had errors. I completed the test and handed the paper to Olivia.  She asked me to wait and disappeared for about fifteen minutes. When she returned she glowed with pleasure. She said she will give me the job because I was the only one who got a perfect score.

We arranged the date when I would begin my work. I then went back to the employment agency and told them I was offered the job.  “I am surprised they hired a Jew” commented the lady at the desk.

When I showed up at work the following week, I was given a nicely furnished office on a par with all the others.  Apparently, they hadn’t planned properly because within two weeks they hired another woman who had to share my office because no other was available.

Ann and I got along really well. She was close to forty and a pharmacist. She had a glamorous background of once having been employed by Hollywood studios and starring in a couple of films. She was slender and curvaceous and very quickly made friends with an older gentleman whose office was across from ours. She would visit him occasionally, sitting on his desk, drinking her morning coffee and dangling her beautiful legs.

Ann was an alcoholic. I didn’t know about things like that then. I admired her easy smile and casual relaxed manner. She carried a flask of Hennessey Cognac in her bag. The flask was in a beige suede pouch. I bought myself a flask and pouch just like that and filled it with Hennessey Cognac. To accompany Ann, I would take a small sip. I didn’t like it and it did nothing to me since I swallowed only a few drops. But we enjoyed the camaraderie.

During the time I shared the office with Ann, they began constructing an office for me in the main entryway next to Olivia. They built it against an interior wall with three sides, a door and no window. I had a nice desk, a good armchair and lots of light.

I had been in my new office a few weeks when I found out that Ann had left suddenly for health reasons.

Shortly after Ann left, her office had a new occupant. Sue was a lesbian. She had a mannish appearance due to her haircut, manner of dress and conversation. Olivia requested I introduce myself and explain the work I was doing.

I was curious and confused about Sue. I tried to discern just how much of her was a man and how much a woman. I came to the conclusion that perhaps she was a man in a woman’s body. Since I always reacted to men differently because of their physical state, I concluded that now I could only react to the masculine spirit within her.

The advertisements were presented to me on cardboards called mechanicals. I also received the copy version. I checked for all possible errors then took them to Olivia for approval and signature. She was always gracious, and I had the feeling when I entered her office that I was being ushered in for tea.

Olivia used to tell me about her mother with whom she lived, but only in generalities. Often her eyes would mist over. She wore no makeup and her brown hair hung down to her shoulders like that of a small girl. She was tall and straight and had perfect, classic features marred only by what appeared to be cold sores on her lips. She applied some kind of shiny ointment to them but in the two years that I knew her I never saw them disappear.

Gigi was the director of the office. She was of French extraction, a diminutive, elegant woman in her fifties. Olivia would always refer to her in exalted terms. Whenever she mentioned Gigi her voice would take on a warm reverential tone.

When I brought her my mechanicals there was always time for Olivia to disclose some closely held feelings.

“They refer to me as The Company Girl, but that’s alright, I don’t mind in the least, I always do my best and follow Gigi’s wishes” she said.

When Olivia found me silent her favorite expression was “A penny for your thoughts, I’m no miser.” Then she would smile broadly, showing her nice set of teeth.

Olivia worked in a business office but in her company, one was in a milieu of good manners, dedication to the company and loyalty to Gigi. These things were imperative in maintaining a solidarity in work and office life. There was after all not just the advertising, there were issues of morality and human ties. And Olivia wove that web and lived in it.

I was having a problem. The work was easy and after a few weeks boring. But my problem was that I had trouble getting past the words. I managed to struggle through the first year I was there. In the second year Olivia hired an assistant for me.

Betty had a desk between Olivia’s office and mine. She was about three years my junior, very pleasant and bright. I began to have a lot more trouble getting past the words. I would look at the word but wasn’t sure I was seeing it correctly. I had to force myself to finish the sentence. After I finished the sentence, I worried about it. Did I miss something?

I was having similar problems at home. I had difficulty leaving the house because I couldn’t be certain I had locked the door. After turning the key in the lock, I would test the handle. Yes, the door was locked. But after I let go of the handle, I wasn’t sure the door was locked. The more often I tested the handle the more difficult it was to walk away. So, I would force myself to test the handle only once or twice and then walk away quickly.

The same thing happened when I checked to make sure the knobs on the stove were in the OFF position. The longer I stared at them the more difficult it was to walk away.  I talked to myself a lot. I said that I would look at the knob and then not look at it again. Then I would walk away. If nothing happened and there was no fire or explosion, then I would know that it was safe to look at the knob once and move away.

All this took a lot of energy and by the time I completed these tasks I was perspiring from tension.

It was at the end of the second year that I had a panic attack.

At lunchtime I took the elevator downstairs and went outside. It was a warm, sunny day and I stopped by the bank window and made a deposit. Then I took the elevator back upstairs. I was going to eat my sandwich which I always brought from home.

There were three tall young men in the elevator with me. I kept remembering blondish hair and a light brown jacket. I was shaking. I exited on my floor, opened the door to the entryway into the office suites and then unlocked my office door. I locked the door and stood against it with my back. My heart was pounding, and I was sweating.

I knew I could not continue working there. I was very embarrassed by my lack of efficiency and by the fact that Betty was needed to make the work move. Olivia was bending over backwards to help me but it only filled me with guilt and shame. One day Olivia approached me as I was passing her office. She looked very distraught. She was speaking almost in a whisper “you must make the work move along more quickly.” She was gentle and it was difficult for her to say that. I nodded in agreement and we parted.

The next day I told Olivia that I was resigning because I needed a rest. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she was shocked and offended. When she passed me in the hallway her eyes were red and her gesture abrupt and angry.

I left the next day. When the elevator stopped in the lobby I rushed out of the building. I knew I had money in my account at the bank, but I was too distraught to get it. “Some other time” I said to myself as I walked hurriedly to the subway station.

Music at Reform Congregation Beth  Or in the Early 1960s

Those who have never attended a Reform Jewish service, or who have only done so in recent years, have little idea of what American Reform services were like during the 1950s or 1960s. Services were stately, even decorous, with a rabbi, organ, and solo and responsive readings in English interspersed with Hebrew prayers, many of which were sung and marked for the Choir. Dress at services was formal, with men in suits and women in fancy dresses. Men prayed with uncovered heads and without talitot, while women wore hats, with many sporting large, elaborate creations that commanded attention. Some of my fondest memories were of women at our synagogue reading dramatically from the bimah, dressed impeccably and wearing broad-brimmed hats that added to the dignity of the occasion. I especially recall hearing them recite the Haftarah for Yom Kippur morning as if at a stage performance, intoning “Is this the fast that I have chosen?” to an awe-struck congregation hanging on every word.

Before the 1970s, few Reform synagogues had cantors. However, music was an essential part of services, and most synagogues had choirs, often with soloists, some of them paid professionals. At Beth Or in the 1960s, the choir sat in a prominent location at the front of the sanctuary, on the right, facing the organ. An adult choir, whose members wore black robes, served during evening and High Holiday services, while a children’s choir dressed in suits and dresses sang during Shabbat morning services. An adult member might join the organist and a few children to provide music during daytime services for Sukkot or Pesach on weekdays. A larger choir would sing during Shavuot, when confirmation ceremonies generally meant a large attendance. Later in the 1960s, the synagogue hired professional singers, and I remember hearing one of them rehearse during the afternoons when I occasionally stopped at the synagogue after school. I recall one moment during the Kedushah section of the Amidah when the soloist, to begin singing at a loud volume, would turn beet red before exploding with sound. Many years later the liberal congregation in Singapore with which my wife and I were affiliated used the same music at High Holiday services, and I shared the story with the visiting cantor, to our mutual laughter.

For several years I served in the children’s choir, attending rehearsals one night a week and singing Saturday mornings. About a dozen of us, generally below bar or bat mitzvah age, would gather each week to rehearse and then reconvene Shabbat morning in our good clothes to sing at services. While we occasionally horsed around, we usually quieted down enough to practice and then perform well Saturday mornings. At the time, the Reform movement’s Union Prayer Book I, for Shabbat, Festivals, and Weekdays, had different texts and music for each week of the month. My favorite services were the first in the month, which were longer, especially if we included Hallel – psalms of praise – in honor of Rosh Chodesh, the new moon. Then we sang a pretty version of “Hodu L’Adashem” – very Romantic and totally different from the more traditional settings my friends at their Conservative synagogues would hear. I also liked our version of “Mah Tovu”, in which the words “Anei-ni be’emet” (“Answer me in truth”) were sung to a melody that sounded very much like “I wish you a Merry Christmas.” I still have my loose-leaf book from choir with music we used for services.

A special privilege of being in the children’s choir was the opportunity to serve as a soloist a few times a year, which provided the chance to sing several special passages. Among my favorites was chanting the “Y’verechecha” (the Priestly Blessing) at the end of the service, after the rabbi pronounced it with raised arms over the congregation’s bowed heads. Another was chanting Kiddush. Just before the “Y’verechecha” the soloist sang the solo parts of the Kiddush, with the choir and congregation joining in “Ki vanu ve-charta”, supported by a swelling organ. After chanting the Kiddush, the soloist got to drink some of the wine, and I remember once the rabbi at that time tapping me on the shoulder and announcing, “You don’t have to drink the whole thing,” to everyone’s laughter.

After I left college and graduate school and became involved in Washington D.C.’s Fabrangen chavurah in the late 1970s, I became more familiar with the combination of traditional Ashkenazic settings and modern folk music that were typical of chavurot and other informal congregations of the time. Music at Reform synagogues, in turn, changed by introducing both more traditional melodies and new, folk-rock settings, often performed by rabbis and cantors strumming guitars. While all this is fun, particularly for younger attendees, it would be fun to re-experience the synagogue music of my childhood, at least on occasion.

Joshua Greene Bio:
Dr. Joshua Greene is a macroeconomist with a specialization in public finance. Retired from the International Monetary Fund (IMF), where he served for more than 28 years, including 6 years as Deputy Director of the IMF-Singapore Regional Training Institute in Singapore, he is currently a Visiting Professor and Interim Director of the Applied Economics Track in the Master of Science in Economics program at Singapore Management University in Singapore.

He is also a consultant for the Asian Development Bank and has served periodically as a consultant for the IMF, the ASEAN+3 Macroeconomic Research Office (AMRO), and Bank Negara Malaysia (Malaysia’s central bank). He has also taught macroeconomics at George Mason University. Dr. Greene has done research on a variety of subjects, including African debt, factors affecting private investment in developing countries, the U.S. balance of payments, public debt issues facing the United States, and ways of accelerating growth in the United States.

He is the author of two books: Public Finance: An International Perspective, and Macroeconomic Analysis and Policy: A Systematic Approach, both published by World Scientific. His research has been published in IMF Staff Papers, World Development, the Journal of African Finance and Economic Development, and other journals. A past president of the Society of Government Economists, he has a Ph.D. in economics and a law degree from the University of Michigan and an undergraduate degree from Princeton University. Dr. Greene is also active at the Pozez JCC, having served as a Board member, past vice-president, and treasurer, and on the Film Festival Committee, which he co-chaired during 2011-12.

Lately, time seems to be passing so very quickly, however, I guess that it is a sign of growing old!!  Too bad that I am just getting over losing my wonderful friend Carol Backman, and another painful feature of aging.

I met Carol over 5 years ago when we were both in the same Yiddish class at the J.  I joined the class really not knowing very much Yiddish but was anxious to learn.  Carol, on the other hand, had pretty much spoken Yiddish exclusively with her Bubbe during her youth.  It was obvious that she knew much more than me, so before long I invited Carol to join my small study group.  We met with just a few members of our Yiddish class, studying independently in preparation for our weekly Monday class.  Carol was an outstanding student, and very good at recognizing Yiddish words at our small study group.  She also truly enjoyed reading a few paragraphs in Yiddish, and pausing to discuss their meaning, in English.  A favorite question of Carol’s was “what was the author really trying to tell his reader.”  It began to give a new meaning to all the new vocabulary and idioms I was learning in Yiddish.  Every Monday afternoon, I was ready to participate in class with much more confidence thanks to my independent study group. Shortly, I realized that studying Yiddish became one of my favorite weekly activities at the J.

Unfortunately, about two or three years ago Carol’s began to decline.  She started spending much time visiting doctors and missing many Yiddish classes.  Finally, she announced that the doctors gave her a diagnosis and it was not a good prognosis!  Nevertheless, I tried to visit with Carol weekly on the telephone, sent her many notes and cards and made sure to keep her current with our most recent Yiddish assignment.

During this period Carol encouraged me to join the Memoir class at the J which met monthly on Mondays at the J.  I began writing short essays about fond memories of my youth, such as adventures at summer camp, happy memories of my parents, birthday parties at my home, my aunts, uncles and cousins, Jewish holidays etc. For some reason Carol, although not always feeling in great health, managed to join these monthly classes where each participant read their own vignette based on a prompt, such as my favorite summer vacation destination etc. Carol loved writing about her youth, her relatives, her husband and two children, her blessed three grandchildren and her remarkable life with Sam.

Our weekly telephone chats we reminisced about marvelous conversations about my early years in Brooklyn, N.Y. and her youth in Washington D.C.  It almost got to the point where I was certain I knew her parents, sister and family, children and many family members personally.  During all of these months Carol grew sicker and slowly stopped coming to Yiddish study group or class.  She would also miss Memoir classes and we were fortunate to have Marcia Lawson skillfully pick up the reigns of this fun activity.

As Carol’s health continued unfortunately on a downward spiral, my husband Howie and I became very friendly with Carol’s tremendous husband Sam.  Sadly, it became apparent that Carol was unable to chat on the phone any longer.  Finally, Tuesday morning, April 16, 2024, Sam called our house and announced that Carol had passed the night before.

Her funeral was held on Wednesday, April 17.  My husband Howie and I paid a Shiva call that evening and met all of her outstanding family members in person.

In conclusion, Carol taught me so much about kindness, acceptance, patience and understanding about people.  I soon came to realize that we bonded because we were both math teachers and grew up in very Jewish homes.  She always remained positive and loving to the very end of our heartwarming conversations.

Five years ago, I contacted Agudas Achim Congregation to inquire about activities for seniors. They referred me to Carol Bachman.

I called Carol and we spoke for about an hour. We talked about our families’ friends and in general Jewish life in Norther Virginia. We agreed that we felt as if we had met before and had known each other for many years. We instantly felt comfortable with each other.

Carol invited  me to check out the Memoir Club run by the J.

I am not a writer but she convinced me to give it a try. I followed her advice and have attended the zoom sessions ever since.

It was evident that Carol was a skilled storyteller. I enjoyed listening to  her stories about her travels and family. She was an inspiration when she wrote about her challenging illness. I admired her fortitude and perseverance to overcome pancreatic cancer.

She was determined to get her life back.

I had not met Carol; fact to face until I hosted the Memoir lunch about 3 years ago. It was great that she attended and we got to talk person to person. I saw her again last summer at the summer luncheon at Silver Diner. She was in great spirits and gave each of us a hug and told us how much she loved us. That get-together was so special, it was the last time I saw her in person.   Soon after that she had a relapse.

I feel fortunate to have known Carol. When I think of her, I remember her stories and her outgoing personality. She will not only be missed from the Memoir and the Book Clubs, but I will personally miss her instinctive warmth and friendship.

I was fortunate to connect with Carol by phone five weeks before she passed away,  when she called to thank me for a note that I had sent to her a few days earlier.  It was a moment when she was still the engaging and inspiring woman whom I’ll always remember, and  the most rewarding part of our exchange was the fact that I was able tell Carol just how much she meant to me and I could tell that she truly appreciated what I had to say and responded warmly.   For an hour and a half, Carol and I were on a roll and we had one another’s undivided attention.  So often we save our tributes to someone we admire for the memorial service, but this was one occasion when I was happy to have the opportunity to address my words  directly to Carol and she could hear how much she meant and still means to me.

Here is what I said to Carol in the hand-written note I sent to her in early March.

My dear Carol,

I have been remiss in not writing to you sooner but you are constantly in my thoughts. This note is about how much I owe you for giving me something that I never expected and that is “a voice.”  Since the very first time I walked into the Memoir Writing Group’s meeting in JCC basement in the Fall of 2019, you have helped me take on an activity I would have never pursued on my own.  I would have never taken up memoir-writing had it not been for you.  There are some people who just happen to make a difference to someone - on that day I had no clue how meaningful  that chance encounter with you and the group was going to be.  I didn’t know anything about you or your many contributions to the local Jewish community and far beyond, but for me it was an opportunity to try my hand at writing and this would have never happened without you.

I became motivated to write as a regular member of the Memoir Writing Group, but I also drew inspiration from the stories you shared with us. They were so heartfelt, so poignant, so personal and so powerful. It was a very new and liberating experience for me to have you be so forthright as I come from a background where sharing family stories with outsiders is frowned upon.  I am grateful to you for helping me learn that it was OK to be vulnerable. So I thank you for giving me this gift that goes on giving.

Take care of yourself my friend, and know that I am thinking of you and  look forward to more of your beautiful stories.

With a warm hug, Ila

I was so saddened by Carol Backman’s death.  I feel so lucky to have known her and to have been her friend.  She was an exceptional person, kind, caring, talented, devoted to her husband and family, a very conscientious and skilled writer who did a phenomenal job as the facilitator of the JCC Memoir Writers Group (MWG).  As someone with an advanced graduate degree who has attended many meetings and seminars, I was especially appreciative of Carol’s skill in creating an atmosphere of encouragement and warmth, and that atmosphere encouraged the group to share criticism and feedback in a most positive way.

I originally came to the group only to accompany my chronically ill husband, who wanted to write his memoirs for his grandchildren.  I really had no interest in writing memoirs.  I assumed that this would be a pleasant experience, I did not expect to be sitting enthralled  and on the edge of my seat as members of the group (some of whom were holocaust survivors) shared their memories.  I looked forward to attending with my husband every month—we attended from several years.  He died just before the pandemic shut everything down and by that time I was so attached to Carol and to the group that I continued to attend to hear the stories.  After a few months, I began to write my own. As I  was still grieving, I began to write stories about humorous events and the group found them amusing and Carol encouraged and supported  me. I got such positive responses to what I had written that I continued to write.  Writing about these silly, funny and happy experiences cheered me up immensely, helped me to grieve, and I began to share some of what I wrote with friends and family.

As Carol had pointed out, writing about people, some of whom are no longer with us is also a way to keep them alive in our memory.

I know that Carol will continue to remain alive in my memory.