There was a way that you could tell who knew my mother well and who had just met her. We called it the sneeze test.
Newcomers would “God Bless You” after the first sneeze. Acquaintances would wait through the first half dozen. Family members stood fast through the first six or seven clusters cho..cho..cho..cho..cho..
And sometimes even we were fooled. God Bless you…Cho..cho.. cho…too soon.
It seems both profoundly fitting and odd to be standing here at the Jewish Center of Bayside Oaks where Susan, Ruth, Eve and I all celebrated our bat and bar mitzvahs. Where Leon and I sang together in the High Holiday Choir –he an alto, me a soprano. My father sat on this Bimah as the president of the Men’s Club; my mother as the president of the Sisterhood. On High Holidays the rabbi shisshed the congregation to order as the men stood outside smoking Lucky Strikes and Camels.
It was over a half century ago, in another time, in another life, when we live and grew two blocks away on Garland Drive. Where we played spud, and touch football in the streets and Nigel our Great Dane terrorized the neighborhood. An easy walk took us to Springfield Boulevard for a slice and a coke for a quarter and a five minute ride took us to Bell Boulevard for a Creamy Egg Cream or a hot fudge sundae from Carvel. On hot summer nights we would all climb in the back of the windowless J Raphael and Son van and careen across the floor as my father drove us to Corona Ice King. We smelled of cinnamon and allspice for days.
It was a time of Wednesday night Bowling League and Monday night Gin Rummy. And with my mother it was always a time of wonderful music. The four of us dancing and spinning wildly as my mother played Mozart’s Turkish March on the piano in the living room. My mother and father singing “My Funny Valentine” – she with her beautiful clear voice and him less so. My mother playing lead singing roles in Jewish Center of Bayside Oaks musicals. Close to 50 years later, I bet Susan, Ruth, Eve and I can still remember the words:
“Someone's painting the leaves all wrong this year - wish you were here
Why did the birds change their song this year - wish you were here
They're not shining the stars as bright
They've stolen the joy from the night
Wish you were here, wish you were here, wish you were here
Who could have imagined that suddenly, and seemingly so swiftly, my father’s death would shatter this magical and idyllic life? How could this happen? How could we go on?
But my mother was a survivor and she possessed remarkable strengths as she faced and overcame this and other painful challenges. She was an Ayshish Chayal – a remarkable woman of valor.
And so she rebuilt her life; she went to work and became a preschool teacher par excellence. The International Playgroup; the Shelter Rock Jewish Center; The Samuel Field’s Y. She dispensed medicines and washed children’s hair as a Camp Mother at Camp Kfar Masada.
And wherever she went the children followed her and cried with delight: “Billie, Billie, Billie.”
And after she put her children through college she completed her own education receiving a Bachelors of Arts Degree in Early Child Education from Adelphi University.
How could God not see the great goodness in this woman’s heart? Her children grew and they built families of their own. And they blessed her with grandchildren and great grandchildren. They called her Nana and they filled her with joy. They were her jewels and they adorned her with riches.
It is said that in His infinite vision God brings together Chasans and Kallahs, brides and bridegrooms; men and women who are “bshert” meant for each other. And perhaps because of the beauty of her inner soul God blessed my mother twice; first with my father and then when my mother and Leon discovered each other. They built a new life together filled with love, family and Judaism. Leon was my mother’s husband but all of our family has been blessed by this gracious and good man.
My mother’s memory began to fade shortly after a visit to Israel. She fought so hard to hold on to her memories. Perhaps five years ago, as we sat at a restaurant on Northern Boulevard we became partners in memory:
“I was dating another man, who loved me and kept on trying to give me something”.
“I met my, father, I mean my husband at a place”. “He was so very handsome and we fell in love immediately.”
“We wanted to get married right away but we had to wait until my sister got married first. When we got married, it was at the same place as my sister”
And even later days, her love and her humanity continued to shine through:
“I like you here. I love you so much. How are you?”
“I love you dear. When will you come to this place again?”
As her illness progressed, people would ask me how my mother was doing. I answered as she would: “It is what it is.” There was peace in her heart; she had lived a good and meaningful life; she had treated people with dignity and respect; she cared for others and knew that others cared for her. She had raised a family and that family had raised new families and their children did the same. It is what it is. It’s okay.
She spent the end of her days in warm sun of Jerusalem – her stories and her memories being absorbed into the shared memories of our people. Yesterday, she joined our ancestors and is now buried in a sacred land, in the shadows of sacred places. Her life was a blessing to all who knew her.
What is the measure of this woman?
The children who flocked to her.
The friends who revered her.
Family – sisters and brothers in laws, aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins and more who adored her.
Children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who bless and honor her.
What is the memory of this woman?
A warm and welcoming smile.
Lovely inviting brown eyes
Soft but strong hands.
The syncopated sound of a staccato sneeze. Bless you… wait.
And a song.
“Where did the night go
So soon, so soon.
So young but a moment ago.
So young but a moment ago.
