Yom HaShoah

The new store has this beautiful balcony that looks out over the Judaean hills. I don’t pay much attention to it except for the times when the electric eye on the door sticks and it opens and closes almost constantly, making us all nuts. There is so (so) much crazy happening inside the bakery that I have very little time to look outside. But as the siren went off I got to experience true silence for the first time in weeks (ironic, I know, that it is the siren that allows me quiet) so I stepped outside on to the balcony. With the bakery behind me and these stunning hills in front of me, I was able to stop for a minute and just be in a moment. And this is what I thought: my grandfather was an American GI, a codebreaker who was stationed in France during the war. My family (and we assume the entire US military) credits him, Abe Nemetski, with winning the war. David’s father, Julius Katz, grandparents, Morris and Rose Katz and beloved Aunt Henny were able to run from the Nazis. David’s father was Dov’s age when he left Germany on a Kindertransport. And here we are, all those years later, in a country unimagined during the war. My grandfather returned home, moved from Williamsburg to Brooklyn with my grandmother and became an accountant. David’s father, at age 14, sailed from England to Halifax, Nova Scotia and on to Cleveland, Ohio to rejoin his family. He, too, served in the US military and went on to join the family business.

And now here we are. Here we get to be. It is an honor and not one we take lightly.

I have smiled so much this past week that my jaw hurts. My voice has that color-war hoarseness to it from talking and talking to customers. I come home at night so tired that it is hard to string together a sentence (though often that sentence is: take out your math book so we can finish your homework and go to sleep). David is averaging 3 hours of sleep a night. As I write this the clock shows 4 am because who can sleep past that? My friends have shown up at the bakery in droves and they make me feel so loved and supported and cared for. And we are overwhelmed and tired and happy and nervous and happy some more. Also, come visit me, I’ve set up tables on that balcony. It seems good for the soul.

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Bailey’s Ice Coffee

In what can only be considered a stroke of genius, we made ice coffee with liberal amounts of Bailey’s Irish Cream blended into it for Purim this year. We had the ice coffee machine from the bakery set up on our counter and we became quite the popular destination.

It’s been a roller coaster few weeks. We’ve signed to take over the lease of Ima Burekas in Efrat and as of tomorrow afternoon, we take over a factory, a second store location and a restaurant. All pretty unanticipated. We’ve spent this month signing papers, creating many excel spreadsheets, hiring new wonderful people and freaking out. And then Purim. After spending way too many hours making way too many Mishlochai Manot for orders, we were truly the shoemaker’s children, going barefoot into Purim. We were exhausted and wary of anything with flour. Ice coffee proved to be the perfect antidote.

I toasted old friends with their grown children and we marveled at how far we’ve all come. I toasted soldiers to their safety, new moms to their sanity and good friends to wisdom and joy. I wished for calmness and excitement and adventure and love. I’m fairly sure that as the day went on the toasts became more poetic but perhaps that’s the Bailey’s talking. Yoni had us adopt his shevet in Bnei Akiva so we’re parenting some wonderful 16 year olds. They were here today. Our old shevet came by with their kids (!) at some point. More people piled in and out and back in again (it was really good coffee, worth a second flyby).

It felt like the perfect way to start a new adventure, surrounded by friends and people we love, at seuda with some of our oldest friends pushing us into the craziness of  tomorrow’s adventure. I think we’re ready. Also, I think the Bailey’s helped. Purim Sameach.

 

Imperial March

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Years ago, (well, two years ago) when Dov was in first grade on a lovely Friday morning we celebrated his Chumash party. As we walked under the Chuppah, signifying the beginning of the great Torah parade, Dov took my hand and started to hum the Imperial March from Star Wars. We all educate in different ways.

This morning was spent with mothers learning that their sons were either closed in to the army for Shabbat or at the last minute, if things seemed calm enough, their sons were free to go home for Shabbat. But I celebrated the morning with other boys. The first grade boys of Orot Etzion.

Today was the return of the Great Chumash Party. Though Dov has aged out of the fabulousness of Kitah Aleph, the bakery has some mad love for his school. We sent over chocolate chip rolls for each kid to celebrate great Fridays, great Torah and great parades. To say out loud that I supplied sugary treats to small children moments before they were asked to sit quietly in an auditorium may make me sound slightly evil, but we did it none-the-less. Because all I want to do is support and encourage a moment where life is no more complicated than holding your mom’s hand and loving your Chumash.

 

 

 

All Clear.

It’s 3:47 am and I am jetlagging. I’m binge-watching Netflix and playing Boggle on line and waiting for elusive sleep to hit when the first text message comes in. I ignore it for awhile because really who texts at 3:47 but after a few minutes I check and find out we’re under lockdown. I have no way to explain the bizarreness of this, but last week I was at Mitchell’s sitting on the bench outside or at a table inside with friends, with kids, with family eating organic ice cream and now I’m shaking David awake and sending him downstairs to make sure all windows and doors are locked.

And then I turn on lights everywhere and start wondering — do I wake my kids, do I move everyone into our room? I hear small noises from the street, growing louder and softer and I wait and wait and wait.

Earlier in the evening, with friends over, we got more texts and laughed, a bit, cautiously,  when the lockdown on Rosh Tzurim was resolved when they found the thief who broke in to steal chickens. We texted friends in Efrat when they went under lockdown this evening as well after someone saw something suspicious.

And, apparently, at 3:47 am it was our turn. Someone broke into the yishuv, wiggling under the gate that was locked — it is a trick generation of teenagers know about here. But not tonight. Because tonight we are all on edge. It takes 15 minutes for the mystery to be solved, for the wiggling teenager to be found for everyone to be told to head back to bed. But I wasn’t sleeping before and I’m sure not sleeping now.

Last week, I was away in the land of Starbucks and Niagara Falls when the stabbings took place in Neve Tzuf but Yael was there with friends — with her entire Bnei Akiva staff. And when they got back to Alon Shevut on Saturday night, they were all greeted by support staff, trauma therapists and people who were trained. And instead of letting them come home, they sat down with them all and talked it out. And for awhile the kids felt like, just let us go home we don’t need to talk now we need our beds and our parents and our homes. But they were wrong. They needed people to say, with love, talk it out.

And part of me wants to say here, let’s just talk it out. But what I really want to say is, if you’re totally right wing politically don’t post on my wall, not tonight. And if you’re totally left wing politically don’t post on my wall, not tonight. I’m blessed with people across the spectrum in my life. But tonight all I can think of is the end of Paul Simon’s American Tune where he tells us, “All I’m trying is to get some rest.”

 

 

Birthday Boys

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It is a source of great anger among the littles that I dared to birth both Eitan and Dov on the same day. I like to remind them both that neither of them was supposed to be born on Friday, February 27th. Eitan showed up 12 weeks early and Dov, practically late by Katz standards, came 5 weeks early. But early they came with 5 years to separate them, on February 27th.

This year Eitan won the birthday wars. It was, after all, his Bar Mitzvah so Dov’s birthday slid by with little fanfare while we planned Eitan’s day down to the color of the napkins. Through it all I solemnly promised Dov that I would most certainly make him his own party. And a mere four months later, I came through. So today, June 26th became Dov’s defacto birthday — celebrated with all his classmates in our backyard with epic pinterest attempts and an entire party revolving around Pool Noodles and the games you can play with them (spoiler alert: many. the amount of games you can play with them is oh so many). And they ate cake and ice cream and ice pops and played sports and went home.

Except that today, June 26th, Dov’s birthday party day also happens to be Yoni’s actual birthday. So now Dov, the boy who never had a birthday to call his own, celebrated his birthday party on Yoni’s birth day. Sigh. One would think there aren’t 365 days in a year. But it is what it is so after Dov’s party we invited Yoni’s closest friends over and just BBQed the hell out of some meat.

I have a great deal to say about 16 year old boys but I will say this: I have loved Yoni’s friends since they were old enough to toddle into and out of this house. They are ridiculous and wonderful and smart and gross all in the right ways. And if who you are can be reflected by the choice of the people you befriend, I am so so happy.

So while I may be hiding in my room escaping the X-Box marathon, the kite-flying debacle and the overall over-saturation of meat, let me wish the happiest of days to the boy whose day was co-opted by 18 8-year-olds with pool noodles. Yoni, I love you. Happiest of days.

 

Blanket

401749_438376709522659_206970654_nIn order to get the best seats in the house (or the outdoor amphitheater as it were), you need to set out a blanket e-a-r-l-y. So early, in fact, that when I did my first round of carpools this morning at 7:20 there were already blankets out. It’s a bizarre etiquette, this whole seat-saving, blanket-placing Yom HaZikaron/Yom HaAtzmaut ceremony-ing. It’s counter-intuitive to be sad/happy to be kind to all as long as you don’t sit in my seat. It overwhelms me.

We put a blanket down. We’re notoriously known (just in our own family lore) for getting the worst seats possible (this year we are sitting directly behind the AV computer tent), but it never really matters. It’s always the same. A little freezing. A little overcrowded. And just wonderful. We’re sad as a community. We laugh together at “inside jokes” that we either get or don’t really get but try really hard to. We shower little kids with love as they dance and sing their hearts out.

When our kids were little, there was The Song — the quintessential Israeli song, written in some long ago era of idealism where we put on our kova tembels, took our backpacks and hiked the land or bought a shovel and cleared a swamp. The 4 and 5 year olds would belt out the song in our makeshift Carnegie Hall and we would jostle for the right angle to take the perfect picture to record this moment as proof for the immigrant in us — we have arrived. Look, our kid sings.

There are just a million of these moments, where we proudly or tacitly announce our arrival. Some are breathtaking and some are heartbreaking. But it starts here with our 4 year old singing off key.

This year the first of our 4 year old singers got her first call-up to the army. We are long past the days of afternoon rehearsals in the park. And it passes in a heartbeat. But we’ve got our blanket and we’ll all squish onto it and watch other people’s four year-olds (who we love so so much) sing and sing. We have arrived.

Sunset.

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I don’t want to write this post. I am actually really angry that I am writing it. What I want to do is to be curled up in bed with a book, with a kid, with the NYTimes crossword. But I’m not. I’m here. Feeling sad and not brave.

When Erez Orbach was getting killed, I was probably driving a carpool run to soccer practice on the same Kibbutz where he would be buried a day later. Just earlier that morning, I felt that there was a modicum of closure after Yakov Don’s murder. There was a step forward.

Alon Shevut is a bruised and battered place to be. But they sure know the drill. The older kids shuffle out to Bnei Akiva, to the snif, where they say tehillim, cry and sing. Adults show up with drinks and soup (it is, after all, right after a fast day). The trained professionals from Alon Shevut show up next and speak in murmurs of kindness and faith. The 16 year olds, the “older generation” sit with their chanichim to talk and to listen and to cry. Everyone comes home shattered.

The funeral felt like this: All of Alon Shevut gets up and walks across the street to the cemetery, buries another victim of terror, and turns around and walks back home. It is sadly a beaten track. It felt like the average age at the funeral was 20.  Kids upon kids upon kids who should have been in school, in the army, somewhere anywhere that wasn’t a cemetery. It is a heartbreak that there is no need to explain funeral etiquette to a 16 year old.

And the wind feels relentless, bursting forth throughout the funeral. The soldier next to me with the crumpled white satin kippah loses his kippah to the wind four or five times and we just keep passing it back and he keeps putting it back on as if this time the outcome will be different.

Today everything is more subdued. Quieter. Sadder. But the sunset tonight is exquisite. The entire Gush seems to be on fire. And much like the rainbow where God promises forgiveness, tonight it feels like He is offering an apology.

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Picture credit: Shachar Kelner

Burning Up.

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Look, it hasn’t been a great week. Each boy had me bringing him to the doctor or the hospital at least once. Some kind unsuspecting teacher accidentally opened a caravan door into Dov’s face giving him a mild concussion. He followed that up with a 103.5 fever and strep. I was with Channan at the ENT and with Yoni at the orthopedist (his home away from home). Dov and I watched Minions at 3:00 am and he has, in general, been suctioned to my side.

And then it seems like Israel may be on fire. Not just like “where’s the rain” fire but a legit  “didn’t Smokey Bear warn us against these” fires. And there are bad guys doing bad things.

And I’m missing deadlines all over the place… which is OK. But then I pull my computer into the bed with Dov waiting for his fever to break and I start recording my podcast. And he adds an idea or two, quietly at first but enough to make me smile and forget that I am exhausted and woefully behind in things like life and laundry.

We’re back now, snuggling on couch under his fleece Spiderman blanket. I’m waiting for his fever to break again while watching the season finale of Dancing with the Stars. Judge if you want, but it’s exactly where I want to be.

 

 

 

Island.

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When we were little, my mother invented the Island Bike Ride. To know my mom is to realize how entirely consistent it is with her personality. She was a mom who took us on Sunday bike rides. She was a mom who charted out our route perfectly so that our 25 minute bike ride didn’t have us crossing any streets at all. We were awestruck at her brilliance.

For the past 14 years my mother has suffered from Parkinsons. I’m sure all diseases suck. This one is no exception. It super sucks. And then two weeks ago she had brain surgery where a surgeon who I can only describe as awesome poked around for 3 hours in my mother’s brain while she was awake. The next 3 hours had them implanting two electrodes in her brain while she was knocked out.

And then she woke up.

This is what it feels like for me: it feels like a black and white movie that has a splash of color added to it. My mom who has had severe dyskinesia (shakes) can sit still now. We secretly (and not so secretly) position ourselves near my mom whenever she walks. But now she just sort of walks. I videoed the moment that her electrodes were turned on (my kids call her Robot Grandma), and there she was… that mom. And we have missed that mom so so much. More than we ever allowed ourselves to admit. And then she was back.

Yesterday she went on a new Island Walk with my sister. Because if you walk in a full square around her apartment you don’t need to cross any streets. It took them a half an hour and my mom was completely wiped out but it didn’t matter because 25 years later and our Islands are back.

Thanks for all of your prayers and texts and warm wishes and kind thoughts. People are good. Science is good. And my mom is great.

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Summer Hikes

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My people are scattered all over the place these days. I have three boys up at Camp Stone enjoying a Pennsylvania summer while Yael is away traipsing around the North in 100 degree weather planning Bnei Akiva camp. So it is really just us and Dov. Which is riotous.

The three of us celebrated Sundae Sunday, Movie Monday, Town on Tuesday and David and Dov are at the pool now enjoying Water Wednesday. I’m busy making soup and filling my freezer with food to last us through Sukkot (we all vacation in different ways).

Dov ends his run at summer camp tomorrow. The past two weeks have been so beautiful and eye opening for me. Dov went to a Kibbutz camp in the Gush. Every day we packed him with bottles and bottles of water, his hat, a good pair of shoes (that are now a very gross pair of shoes) and sprayed sunscreen all over that guy. And off he went.

And then my 7 year old hiked the heck out of Gush Etzion. He walked through maayanot (water springs) that I didn’t know about. He followed hiking trails that were so off the beaten track that we were amazed they made it home. His most valued possession from the summer is a map of the area that they all got. And he feels like this is his home. He isn’t scared because he doesn’t know that we usually are. He isn’t overwhelmed. He isn’t political. He is just a super cute kid, hiking with lots of other super cute kids. And it is great. One day they stopped alongside some Arabs who were harvesting their grapes. They sat together sharing grapes for awhile and then everyone moved on. And that is my dream. Truly my dream.

My Facebook feed is a hateful place these days. The elections are polarizing and it seems to be playing out so angrily and violently with links and videos and mild hysterics every day. So here’s to my seven year old, hiking with his friends with his too big backpack ready to meet kindness and discover the world. Maybe I’ll join him one day.