The Garden Mission A Grandfather's Labor of Love – A True Story

In July 2024, I took advantage of a sale and purchased a green 8'×2'×2' metal raised garden bed on Amazon. That afternoon, Jacob and I spent an hour putting it together. After identifying a mistake, we took it apart and assembled it again. Upon completion, we carried it out the basement door and placed it in what we thought was an optimal spot in our backyard. (A note here: our house is surrounded by tall trees, thus limiting the available direct sunlight.)

I spent hours online searching for the best soil mixture for planting vegetables in raised beds—topsoil, homegrown compost, worm castings, perlite, and peat moss—and then spent hours over the following weeks combining the ingredients and filling the bed. Having fully filled the frame, I decided it wasn't in an optimal location. So, I emptied the soil out, moved the empty frame to another location, carted the soil in multiple wheelbarrow trips, and refilled it.

On a Sunday morning in February, I drove to Home Depot and purchased all the necessities for starting seeds in my basement: Jiffy planting pots, Jiffy Seed Starter mix, seed packets of three varieties of tomatoes, peas, pole beans, carrots, zucchini, and cucumbers, plus a full-spectrum UV light fixture. I hung this in our basement, moved a folding table under it, lined up the planting pots, filled them with soil, gently placed seeds in each one, and turned on the light. I dutifully watered these daily. Within two weeks, sprouts emerged, and I watched in amazement as they emerged and grew.

After the last frost in April, I transplanted these seedlings to the raised garden bed, where they either did not grow past plant infancy or died immediately. I returned to Home Depot and bought three varieties of tomato plants, two varieties of green peppers, and pots of zucchini and cucumber. I planted these in the garden bed described above. It quickly became apparent that these plants were not receiving sufficient sunlight. I dug them up, set them aside, emptied the soil from the planter, moved the planter to a sunnier spot, and conveyed the soil, one wheelbarrow load at a time, to refill the planter. I returned to Home Depot and, once again, purchased varieties of tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, and cucumbers. These were planted in the raised garden in its new location, which, as far as I could determine, received the minimum daily allotment of sunlight required for growth.Within two weeks, sprouts emerged, and I watched in amazement as they emerged and grew.

Within two weeks, sprouts emerged, and I watched in amazement as they emerged and grew.

Within two weeks, sprouts emerged, and I watched in amazement as they emerged and grew.

Slowly, slowly, tomatoes emerged. A yellow pepper appeared but was immediately eaten by some unknown and unwanted invader. By late July, two tomatoes were beginning to turn from green to pink, and in the first week of August, they seemed ready for picking. Within two weeks, sprouts emerged, and I watched in amazement as they emerged and grew.

It was just that week that my two grandchildren arrived (with their parents) for their annual summer stay at our home. Two days after their arrival, Bina and I went to the backyard. I guided her to a tomato, she tugged it gently, it detached from the vine, and we brought it to the kitchen and displayed it to all.

Mission accomplished.

Basement Archeology

 

Basement Archaeology

    Cleaning the basement is somewhat akin to an archaeological excavation. Digging through layers of boxes, you can uncover relics from the past: coats you haven't worn for 50 years, baby announcements and Bat Mitzvah invitations for a daughter who is now over 40 years old, a game of Twister that at our age would present a very significant health hazard, yellowed copies of the New York Times from September 11, 2001, and one announcing the Israel Egypt peace agreement dated March 26, 1979.

    We found perhaps thousands of photos—mostly of our children but occasionally of travel experiences—the barges on the Amsterdam canals, vistas of the Golden Gate Bridge shrouded in fog, the cobblestone alleyways of the Old City of Jerusalem. I went through all the photos, throwing out the duplicates and the ones out of focus, and putting aside ones with special meaning: birth, B-Mitzvah, graduations, relatives whom I loved and who are now gone.

    For some reason, my mother passed on the family archives (broadly defined) to me: a copy of my diploma from SUNY Albany (1974), letters I wrote from camp when I was 8 pleading with my parents to take me home, aerograms from Israel in 1975 describing life on Kibbutz Maayan Tzvi, a photo of my father sitting behind a World War II B-17 bomber.

Perhaps the oddest item, and without question the one that impacted me the most, was my father's brown leather wallet. Opening it up revealed his Social Security card, New York State driver's license, and, within the translucent plastic pockets generally used for displaying photographs, four disintegrating four-leaf clovers.

    I have my father's Boy's High yearbook from 1941 and his varsity football sweater—a heavy black wool garment with a large "B" emblazoned on the front. But neither of these, nor the multiple photographs of him, had the emotional impact of his wallet and its contents. And I'm trying to figure out why.

    Unlike photos of special moments and objects representing his athletic skills, these were mundane items that accompanied him in his daily life. They were in his back pocket as he navigated the side roads of Queens and Brooklyn on his way to grind and mix spices at J. Raphael and Sons. He would have pulled out his wallet when he treated his children and their friends to Carvel ice cream on Bell Boulevard or when he and I had coffee and apple turnovers at the Scobee Grill in Little Neck. Perhaps they were in a drawer in his bedside table as he lay in his room at Sloan Kettering Cancer Hospital in New York. The wallet also contains a check for $35 made out to, in my father’s handwriting, Dr. Robert Levy, who was, if I remember correctly, the Oncologist who first treated his Hodgkin’s Disease.

In the context of his early death, the desiccated four-leaf clovers struck me as ironic. But perhaps they were a message sent to me from beyond the grave: Luck is how you define it. Yes, he died at a young age. But his life was blessed with a wonderful family who adored him. He had friendships that lasted a lifetime. "The crown of a good name is above them all[1]." He was recognized as an honest, caring, and decent man. His work, as I have been told, was a difficult burden for him. But he persevered. He got up every morning at 5:30 am, navigated an hour's worth of traffic, spent 9 hours mixing, grinding, and packaging spices that would provide the flavoring for most of the meatpackers and pickle makers in New York, and then spent another hour in traffic. If God was looking down on him, and if there is a heaven, I think he has earned his luck.

 

P.S. On a lighter note, my father handed down this tongue twister that I now share with my grandchildren causing delightful giggling.  Try it:

 

One smart fellow, he felt smart.

Two smart fellows, they felt smart.

Three smart fellows, they all felt smart.

---

[1] Ethics of our Ancestors, 4:17—"Rabbi Shimon said, there are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of kingship. And the crown of a good name is above them all."

 

We All Need More Bina

"How much better is it to get wisdom than gold! and to get understanding (Bina) rather to be chosen than silver.” Proverbs 16:16

One of my favorite Jewish jokes speaks of the difference between the Jewish pessimist and the Jewish optimist.  Says the Jewish pessimist: “Things are terrible, they can’t get any worse.”  Says the Jewish optimist: “Things are terrible, but they can always get worse.”  Thus, my reaction to the current national and geopolitical dynamic along with growing climate instability is that it is hard not to be a Jewish optimist, comforted, in our uniquely Jewish way, that everything can always get worse.

In an era where there is so much that is troubling and frightening, we all need more Bina. In Hebrew, Bina means “wisdom”, however, in Jewish tradition, ‘Bina’ goes beyond knowing – it is knowledge based on understanding, tempered by contemplation and reflection. It is knowing how to employ all we have learned with thoughtfulness and framed with humanity.  Linguistically, ‘Bina’ is linked to boneh or l’vnot – builders and the act of building.  Thus, we learn that to truly have Bina, our knowledge must be built and built collectively.  Conversely, we cannot build a society and a world of purpose and of values without Bina.

I am struck that, in a number of African languages, “Bina” means to sing and to dance, as well as the quality of freshness.  In Hindi, Bina is a musical instrument.  And, again, in the context of today’s challenges, we all need to sing and dance more and seek the qualities of newness and freshness in ourselves and in others. 

This summer, our family was blessed by the arrival of Bina Mazal

– Jo and my first grandchild, daughter of Keith and Nomi Adams, and niece to Alya and Jacob.

Neith, Nomi and Bina

My daughter Nomi spoke beautifully at the Simchat Bat:

“I can understand her desire to stay in. For her last couple of months in there, she was getting a steady supply of pizza bagels and chocolate ice cream, and the outside world seems like a pretty scary place right now. There’s a lot to be afraid of. I would be lying if I said that I had no worries about raising a child in our current times. There are so many unexplainable things going on that she’s going to want to be explained to her, so many changes we need to work for. But at the same time, that’s what’s exciting about bringing a new life into the world. We have the opportunity to raise a woman who will hopefully be kind and caring, who will work for change, who will fight for what she believes in, and who will love as much as we love her. 

I cannot be more proud of my daughter Alya, who said:

“For Bina, I wish the same things for you that I wished for your mother before she had you. I wish you joy and I wish you love.

I wish you curiosity. The desire to explore the world and to learn new things and meet new people 

Alya and Bina

and hear new ideas, secure in the knowledge that you have this family and home and community always waiting and supporting you.

I wish you grace. In this world of increasing uncertainty and unkindness, I hope you walk through life leaving peace in your wake. I hope you bring light to those around you.

And of course, to echo your name, I wish you wisdom and I wish you luck. The wisdom to listen to all sides and come to the right choice.”

Finally, I share my wonderful son-in-law Keith’s, words: “So, with this name, may our daughter be grounded in her self-determination and may she also find her way to respect and protect our ultimate collective inheritance -- this earth and its inhabitants, one and the same, engaged in a unity for peace.”

Jake and Bina

At a time of great change and challenge, all of us will benefit from curiosity, the desire to explore, and the support of others.  We will benefit from grace and the wisdom to listen to all sides and make the right choices.  We share the responsibility to raise children and to elevate ourselves to be kind and caring, to work for change, fight for what we believe in, and love and be loved. Let us all find the way to respect and protect our ultimate collective inheritance -- this earth and its inhabitants, one and the same, engaged in a unity for peace.

Now is not the time for optimism or pessimism, Jewish or otherwise.  Now is the time for Bina.

My fondest regards to you, your family and your friends for a Shanah Tovah U’mitukah – a happy, healthy and sweet New Year.

The Road Test

Jacob took his road test at the Sandy Springs branch of the Georgia Department of Driver Services approximately two years after he first received his Learner’s Permit at the Westminster Branch of the Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration. Our move to Atlanta, and the requirement that he begin the process anew, was the primary reasons for the delay. Our sense of dread was, most probably, lurking somewhere in the background as a further deterrent.

It was all planned out: I would pick Jacob up at his school at 1:30 pm. The drive to the Department of Driver Services (DDS) branch would take 10 minutes. Jacob would have ample time to fill out the requisite forms and calm himself down before the time for the test arrived. At 1:20 pm I finished writing an email, looked at the clock and realized to my horror that it was - 1:20 pm. Driving like I hoped Jacob never would, I arrived at his school at 1:23 pm. He was nowhere to be found. The receptionist intercommed the Economics teacher – to no avail. The administrator barked into her walkie talkie; to no avail. I pleaded to be allowed to go search the halls; to no avail. Finally, at 1:40 pm he emerged from the stairwell apologetically – providing a fine alliterative pairing to my state of apoplexy.

“I forgot”

Again, driving like I hoped he never would, we arrived at the DDS at 1:50 pm. Two lines and three forms later, at 2:05 pm, we were ready. No, that is a misstatement; all the required administrative requirements had been carried out. I am still not ready

As Jacob completed the last of the forms, I went outside and moved the car from the parking space to the curb in front of DDS, and stood outside and waited.
The examiner came first. I was expecting a state trooper with badge, Smokey the Bear hat; Glock and pepper spray dispenser. Instead, he was a slight, middle aged man with a goatee, yellow knit shirt and a warm smile.

“Is he ready?” He enquired.
So many answers swirled through my head. But this was not the time for honesty.
“Yes”
“A Prius” “What year?”
“2007”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s great”
“Is he nervous?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Don’t worry, I calm them down. I sing Frank Sinatra to them.”
“I’m not sure whether that would make things better or worse”
He smiled.

Jacob emerged from the building and, after a brief inspecting of the lights, horn and turning signals he and the driving examiner entered the car, strapped on seat belts and drove through and out of the DDS parking lot. Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I lingered outside on the curb in the August in Atlanta humidity.

To say that I was nervous doesn’t quite get at the complexity of my emotion state at that time. “Is he ready?” What kind of question is that? The crucial question is "am I ready? Is this another test along the path to normalcy? How far has he really come? How much will my auto insurance go up? I pondered this emotional Gordian knot as I made my way to the bathroom. As I exited, graffiti on the wall provided a valuable perspective and put things in their place: “Wash your hands asshole”.

I opened the book I had brought with me to pass the time but could not find the concentration to read a single word. Instead, I practiced my Torah reading for the next day. “Thou shalt not abhor an Edomite, for he is thy brother; thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou was a stranger in his land.” I looked for meaning in the verses, but could find none.

After fifteen minutes, I spied the Prius returning to the parking lot. It disappeared behind the rows of cars and then, Jacob emerged, walking toward me, looking solemn. I prepared words of condolence.

At three feet he broke out in a grin and proclaimed: “I passed”
We hugged

As the examiner passed by he proclaimed: “He did very well – he’s ready”
Not quite knowing what to say, I responded: “You’re a mench” (Yiddish – you’re a good man)
“Gay G’zint (Yiddish - “go in good health”).
It’s a strange world.

Jacob and I returned to the DDS office to complete the requisite form filling, photo taking and fee paying. As he stood in line I e-mailed Jo, Alya and Naomi: “Holy Shit – PASSED”

Fine minutes later, Jo responded “OMG”

My Facebook post: “Under the joint heading of miracles and profound anxiety attacks Jacob just passed his road test. I don't know whether I should say a Shehehiau (a prayer of thanks for reaching an auspicious occasion) or Gomel (a prayer for making through a dangerous time). I don't know whether to celebrate or throw up. I know; I'll drink heavily.

We drove home looking for a suitable ice cream place to celebrate. As we drove, a wishful litany, written 15 years ago, repeated itself in my head: “Jacob will go to school and he will have friends. He will join a soccer team and play an instrument. He will be bar-mitzvahed and will go out on dates. He will drive a car. He may not go to MIT, but he just might. But then again, that will be his choice.”

We’re almost there.

D’var Torah in honor of my father Alvin who died at Age 49 on erev Shabbat Hagadol 37 years ago.

I am intrigued by the term “Yayekra” the name of the book of the bible that we are currently reading. Yayekra means “to call” as in “to summons”. But it can mean to name – to define. For instance after each day of creation God “called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." As we read through the bible those times when God “calls” someone - using the term “Yayekra” are often defining moments.

The first time it is used in this context Adam and Eve have just eaten the forbidden apple:

"But the LORD God called to the man, "Where are you?" (Genesis 3:9)

Man and woman have defined themselves as creatures who are seduced by and drawn to knowledge. This capacity to know and the desire to pursue knowledge defines us has humans.

Another dramatic moment when the word “Yakerah is used is in the story of the Akedah, “the Binding of Isaac”. As the knife is raised in Abraham’s hand:
"the angel of the LORD called out to him from heaven, "Abraham! Abraham!"

"Here I am," he replied. (Genesis 22:11)

Abraham has defined himself as someone who is willing to make remarkable sacrifices to his God.

So what about Moses?

The first four times God uses the term Vayekrah to call Moses are very dramatic. The first is when God calls Moses from the burning bush. The next three times occur at Mt. Sinai at the giving of the Ten Commandments. Clearly these are defining moments for Moses and for the Jewish people. But what is so definitional about this time that God called Moses and what is so definitional about this whole book that it is called “Vayekrah”? And, by the way, this is the last time God “Calls” to Moses using the term Vayekrah.

“God called to Moses, speaking to him from the Communion Tent and said: Speak to the Israelites, and tell them the following: When one of you brings a mammal as an offering to God, the sacrifice must be taken from the cattle, sheep or goats.” (Leviticus1:1)

In the book of Vayekrah, the Jewish people and their relationship to God are defined by rituals and by behaviors:

• Sacrifices
• The rites of Yom Kippur
• Keeping Kosher
• Worship
• Observing holidays
  

Thus, it is not only those “wow” moments that define who we are and how we are defined by God but those things that we commit ourselves to do every day – day in and day out.

My father defined himself as many of our fathers did. By getting up every day at 5:30 am to wrestle with the traffic on the Long Island Expressway and spend the day mixing and packaging spices at the family business J. Raphael and Sons. Only after he died did I learn that he never enjoyed his work. He had wanted to be a teacher. He loved history. But his portion was to mix and package spices and he did it every day until he became ill with cancer.

His definitions were those of steadiness, commitment and sacrifice. He defined himself by his unwavering commitment to his family. And for this may his memory be for a blessing