From Bayside 2005

I embrace the memories of Bayside, where I grew up, and all that is evoked of my childhood in the context and presence of my mother’s recently diagnosed Alzheimer’s disease. Memories have taken on a new meaning and a new urgency for me.  They are not to be taken for granted and I feel compelled to secure and somehow protect them. I am reminded of the old, black and white Polaroid photos and the necessity of wiping them with a fixing agent to ensure that they wouldn’t fade.  If only there was a fixing agent for our memories.

It has become difficult for my mother to describe events; of days past or of the day that has just passed “We went to that special place to buy things” “We went to eat at that place where we always go”.  She confuses nouns and proper nouns; I become Leon; my wife becomes my sister; the car becomes “the thing we drive in”. 

Over breakfast I encourage my mother to talk of her youth and how she met my father. She talks in vague, ambiguous phrases and I work hard to help fill in the details. 

“I was at a place, (I believe it was small a women’s college in Manhattan), and men would come and visit”.

“I was dating another man, who loved me and kept on trying to give me something” (I believe it may have been some form of jewelry, perhaps a class ring). 

“I met my, father, I mean my husband at a place” (I cannot decipher this).  “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”

These words that define who we are; these names, places, descriptors that give meaning and structure to the individualized world we have constructed over decades - what happens when we cannot find them?  There is a person who I loved, who I married, with whom I had children and shared a life.  He died, he was too young, I was heartbroken; who is that person?  Does our life slip away?  Do we cease to understand the path that brought us to this moment?

I work hard to be my mother’s partner in memory and together we come to share her story.  Perhaps, this is the nature of our lives.  We create and share collective memories – family memories, ethnic memories, national and global memories.  The sharing of memories binds us to one another.  My sisters and I have taken up the load to help my mother be part of this collective family memory.  We are richer for it, but there is a price to pay.

In the face of a fading past and an inevitable frightening future, my relationship with my mother is deepened and enriched.  Our daily phone calls have become warmer more intimate.  I begin by announcing myself with high affect – to get things started and to ensure that she knows who it is: “HI MOM!  I can hear the joy in her voice as she responds: “Hello, my son”.   I give her an update on children and relatives, and she tells me of her day – as she is able.  We end in a manner we never did before the onset of her illness - by saying “I love you”. Why is it that we only truly appreciate the present when we begin to lose the capacity to embrace the past or hope for a future?

My mother has begun to take stock of her life and to measure her days.  She talks of how lucky she is: Four children, 15 grandchildren and 7 great-grandchildren.  She is giving many of her prized possessions away; her parents’ magnificent breakfront is given to Susan; Jo and I now possess her beautiful crystal and silverware.  She cast off these heirlooms as she cast off her memories; she is letting go. In a seemingly paradoxical manner, my mother’s Alzheimer’s disease has brought me closer to my own past as I return to Bayside Oaks and walk the streets; as I talk with my mother and we become partners in memories.  Puzzle pieces of my own life, once lost, reemerge and fall into place. It is as if there is a law of conservation of memory; as my mother’s memories diminish mine are renewed. 

Across the table, my mother looks at me with such love that I am momentarily taken aback.  I realize how profoundly joyful my visit has made her and how grateful she is for our time together.  For a brief moment, it feels like a burden.  The unconditional love between parent and child has been redefined and realigned and I now fully understand that our respective roles have forever been dramatically changed – to an extent reversed.  She needs me, she longs for the times when I return home.  I exhale and embrace this burden, this role, this responsibility, this love.

We walk arm in arm down the streets that I have known for so long. The past diminishes.  The Bayside Oaks of my childhood is fading. The streets grow smaller, the houses disappear and are replaced by ones I do not recognize.  Trees, small when I was a child, are now large.  They send their roots under the sidewalk and lift the concrete.  The path is uneven, and I hold on tight to my mother so she does not lose her footing.  I will hold on as long as I can.

David Raphael © 2005

Uncle Myron, The Orioles and a Hot Dog

Freedom to love the law that Moses brought, 

To sing the songs of David, and to think 

The thoughts Gabirol to Spinoza taught, 

Freedom to dig the common earth, to drink 

The universal air—for this they sought 

Emma Lazarus 

When my Uncle Myron, known to most as Rabbi Myron M. Fenster, was to visit Baltimore for the annual gathering of the Rabbinical Assembly asked for a favor, I couldn’t say no.  He wanted to go to an Orioles game at Camden Yards. 

Not any ticket would do for Uncle Myron and I called in a favor and procured field-level box seats, ten rows behind home plate for a Sunday afternoon game. 

As game time approached the temperature rose to 97° with the humidity not far behind. I navigated to our seats which I discovered with dismay were exposed to the full brunt of the sun.  Uncle Myron went straight to the kosher hot dog stand and promptly arrived at our seats with dogs and knishes in hand.  And so, we sat, munching on these kosher delights and drinking Diet Cokes while the sun blazed down upon us and the humidity drenched out shirts.  Miraculously, we lasted till the seventh inning when we mercifully sought the refuge of the air-conditioned car.

What was it about kosher hot dogs and baseball?  It came to me several months after our outing. 

Uncle Myron

Kosher hot dogs at a baseball game represented the great coming together of the disparate parts of Uncle Myron’s identity. He is a proud American, born into the depression years and raised during days of the “greatest generation”. His father had come to America as a teen after watching his brother being murdered in the streets of Russia. America was the land of his family’s salvation. The land where he played stick ball on the streets of Flatbush, met and married the girl next door, and was accepted to the rabbinical program at the Jewish Theological Seminary. Guided by the learnings of our sacred books and grounded by the wisdom of our teachers he has been a spiritual guide and teacher to thousands.  

To be an American Jew. To be a Jew in America. Baseball, hot dogs, box seats, the Star-Spangled Banner. A double play, an inside fastball. A hot dog slathered with mustard and a Coke.  A commitment to Jewish tradition honored. “Baruch ata H’shem….HaMotzi Lechem Meen HaAretz.  Blessed are you, Creator of the Universe Who brought forth hot dog buns from the earth.”