Deliverance

Back when I moved into my second house in Scarsdale, I had a neighbor, Iris, who, with her husband John, came to our Sukkah one year and regaled me with stories of the feuds she had with deli men all over New York City.

Deli men?

Yeah. This one once put the wrong tuna with the cranberries on her bagel, this one deliberately failed to put the free chips in the bag. Another gave her a funny look when she asked for four sugars in the coffee.  What funny look? I don’t know. A funny look. I would never go into that deli anymore.

By the time she had finished, we were up to dessert.  I realized that even though she worked mid-town, she needed an extra hour for lunch because she had ixnayed every single deli in walking distance.

I said: Isn’t feuding with everybody—exhausting?

As she shrugged, John said, in that complete yes-this-is-my-life-but-that’s-just-fine tone: Iris is picky.

Picky, I’ll raise you a picky.

Fast forward. I am now living in Maine where snow is freely dispensed and generously adorns everything.

It’s also mighty cold.

The heating oil delivery company says their driver will come and deliver the oil.

When he doesn’t come, I call.

Oh yes, he was there, the receptionist says.

Nu, why didn’t he deliver the oil?

He said he couldn’t get to it, to the hose connection outside the house.

Why?

There was snow.

Of course there was snow. It’s December. It’s Maine.

I hang up only after she promises me he will be there tomorrow.

10 degrees. 5 degrees. Minus 5 degrees.

I’m waiting. I have little twins, dammit.

Finally, the delivery guy, whose name is, yes, Guy, shows up.

I point to the connection on the outside wall of the house. There are stone steps leading down to it.  There are a few inches of snow on the steps.

He just stands there.

I shovel them, while he waits.

Nope. Not going. I’m not killin’ myself. I got kids.

Howzabout going around the house the other way, I ask. Because I got kids, too. And they’re going to freeze.

You remind me of my ex-wife, he says. She was Jewish, too.

Whoa? This is Maine. We are not in the Tri-State Area anymore, Toto. It’s a little creepier here. Is he even allowed to… What would his supervisor say if I…

I can’t imagine why you divorced her, I say, breezily.

He stares at me, but then nods, goes back to the truck, undoes the hose and shleps it around the house, the other way, the long way, where there are no steps.

I watch him from my perch as he fills the tank and tells me about his kids.

And how he’s strict with them. I believe that. I believe that very much.

In January it snows, too. More snow than I have ever seen, in fact.

Time for the oil delivery.

He doesn’t show.

In Maine it’s kind of hard to get workmen to come to the house more than once.

The first time, they're all T-squares and measuring tape and dirty fingernails and can do; all lumberjack in plaid and flannel from L. L. Bean though here you just say Beans.

They look competent. It’s a fraud.

They might be on their way to your house to say, install the dishwasher that’s been poking out of it’s place under the counter like an outie bellybutton for three weeks, and a friend of theirs suggests fishin’.

Boom. No show.

I call the company.

Oh yes, he was there, the receptionist says.

Nu?

He said there was too much snow.

It’s taken me four months, four full months to calm down from my natural New York City state of calm.

The tension returns, right between my shoulder blades.

I get them to send him.

Forty-five minutes later he shows up with a smirk.

I go inside my house with my cell phone. I whisper furiously: Can’t you send another driver?

Nope. He’s our only guy on that route.

He is still standing in my driveway and has made no move to deliver the oil. He has not lifted that orange thingie on the back of the truck and revealed the giant bobbin that holds the 100-foot black hose.

Nope. Still the only Guy in town.

I try to reason with him. You like music?

Yeah, I like music.

I walk him down the path towards the hose connector. Not the long way around path, not the steps path, but yet another path that involves walking down my neighbor’s driveway and around my own personal Mt. Katahdin of snow.

I don’t like to go on a neighbor’s driveway, he says.

He goes back to the truck. He hesitates. I hold my breath.

YES! He is releasing the orange thingie and there is the hose!

That will be $500 dollars.

And now, it’s February. Half the synagogue has checked out—to Florida, to California, to the Dominican Republic.

We remain; the Frozen Chosen.

Oil is low, my husband says.

It's vacation week, but the guy will come on Monday.

Sunday evening, 7 o’clock, it starts to flurry.  By 11:30, huge chunks the size of marshmallows are coming down. Of course I can’t sleep.

By 4 in the morning, Maine is another freakin’ winter wonderland, dumped with another two feet. How much snow does He have?

By 7:15 AM the streets are plowed. The kids have school.

I gentle them awake, and dress my little princess as she lies inert in her little princess bed while the little prince sits in front of the heater. It’s so cute when he shakes his little socks at the heater to warm them up.

I get them to school, come home, and panic. I am taking an on-line course which is turning out to be a lot more work than I thought, the car is due at the shop, the dogs are barking and Guess Who is coming?

I call the company.

Oh, we can never tell you when he is going to show. The drivers start out at 6 in the morning and they have a full day.

I look towards the steps. No way. The house is completely surrounded by 4-foot-deep icy crusty snow. No way.

I look down at my neighbor’s driveway. The driveway is shoveled, but then there is the 4-foot-deep issue—all the way and I mean all the way across the yard to the connector.

I sigh and get the shovel.

I don’t know why this is, but when you are angry, you cannot lift weights. I know this because I was at the gym once and I was in a stupid fight with Sruli and I couldn’t lift at all. It’s like your muscles are so tense already, they can’t handle the extra pressure.

But I didn’t know when Guy was going to come. And I knew damn well he wasn’t going to walk through that snow. And he might come any minute. And the dogs were still barking.

I am still sore from this, but I set to work like a madwoman. I heaved and ho-ed. My eyes were tearing. And the dogs were still barking,

5 shovelfuls for each advance. It was…overwhelming, infuriating, frustrating and really heavy lifting.

I kept hearing what sounded like a big truck coming up the hill. It was probably my blood pressure rising.

Halfway. Wow! Halfway!

I mused, as I shoveled, that I should run to Joanne’s Fabrics and buy some red carpet to roll out on the newly shoveled path before he comes.

Or maybe line the path with the candy canes the twinkies made us buy on sale at Walmart after Christmas.

But I didn’t want him to get mad. It is exhausting, Iris. EX-HAUS-TING.

I make it to the connector, inch by inch, pound by pound. I smooth out the area right where he will stand.

Still no show.

I go into the house, get my phone, come back outside to take a picture of the path for Sruli. He has been shlepping up to Augusta all week for a police chaplaincy seminar. See what I also do for this family, I am saying.

The house is getting colder and I can’t concentrate so well.

I call the company.

Oh, he’ll be there, the receptionist says. Before the end of day.

At 3, I go to pick up the twinkies. They are cranky and demanding and I have to take them to Pizza Hut RIGHT THIS MINUTE to redeem the free pizzas that they earned for reading 10 books this month.

And NOT the Pizza Hut that we went to with Amelia. The one we went to with Katelyn. That’s the good one.

I drive to the good one. Which is closed due to maintenance problems. Yeah. I bet I know who delivers their oil.

I take the twinkies  to Applebees. I hate Applebees.

But they are in heaven. Apparently the grilled cheese is just the way we like it, Mommy; the fries are not too crispy (?) and there is a nice dipping sauce for the apples.

My salmon is terrible.

At least Applebees has heat.

Sruli calls as we are leaving. He’s on his way home. Did the guy come?

I don’t know. I hope so.

Did you notice the temperature in the house when you left?

Amazingly, I did. 48.

Oy, he says. Did you leave some water running? Yes. Good, he says.

I say: Did you get the picture of the path I shoveled?

Yes. I can’t believe you did that.

When I get home, the yellow receipt is stuck in the door.  I exult.

O Lord, deliver me from harsh thoughts, from petty grievances. Make me not like Iris who seethes, rather allow me to see that it’s dangerous for a man with kids, a man whose been at it since 6 in the morning, to walk through the ice and snow at every house. Grant me understanding, Lord. 

Deliver me. Deliver this day my oil.

Heavy Load

Compared to the horrors our people suffered, heck compared to anything anyone had ever suffered, this is nothing to kvetch about. But here goes:

For thirteen months, I had no washing machine.

We were living in the shul in North Bergen, New Jersey and the machine broke and since everything there was supposed to be temporary, the $600 to fix the machine was never found, nor was I authorized by the board to pay for it myself.

So, like the rest of my Spanish speaking neighbors, I found myself at the Lavanderia de Ropas.

The parking lot was deceptively large, but besides the Laundromat it served a Dunkin Donuts, a Quick Check, a CVS, and a Burger King. AND it was the hangout of choice for the Young and Latino.

It was impossible to find a spot. I schlepped the twinkies’ stuff, Sruli’s stuff, and my eighteen black items in various containers ranging from the purple mesh bag leftover from Zachary’s dorm days to the plastic white plastic laundry baskets from Target that really don’t fit so nicely on your hip.

The place was teeming. 

Kids running around with candy, people screaming superfast into cell phones, six TV’s all tuned to Univision, blasting the fights of the handsomest soap opera couples I have ever seen. The Young and the Restless Latino. “Por que, Ramon? Por QUEEEEEEEEEE?”

I guess I looked out of place and confused about a certain tarjeta that I was supposed to use to get the machines going.

That’s when I met Mario. He came over to me with the card that had a picture of a dollar on it morphing into huge green arrow. Apparently you had to pay two dolares for the card, but Mario had an extra.

He was in charge of the Lavanderia. I told him that my machine had broken down and (stupid naïve me) it should probably be fixed in a week or so.

He led me to the two biggest machines in the place. Both had signs on them that even with my pidgeon Spanish I knew said Out of Order.

He took off the signs and motioned to me to put my dirty clothes inside. I motioned to the signs in his hand. He motioned to my dirty clothes. I motioned to the signs again, and he winked.

Ah.

Three weeks later I had abandoned all pretense of having my machine fixed, heck of ever having had a machine to call my own.

We had more than an understanding. We had a standing date.

The Lavanderia closed at 10PM which meant the last loads had to go in my 8:30. I sashayed in at 9:45 each and every Wednesday, grabbed two of his fabulous laundry carts that wheeled in every direction, took them out to my car, dumped my stuff therein, and wheeled them, past the Burger King into the Laundromat.

While I used the best machines, Mario emptied lint filters, polished handles and mopped floors. While I folded pink princess and blue monster size 3T sleeper pajamas, Mario would fold the laundry of those lucky enough to be able to afford $1.20 per pound for full drop-off service .

I guess I was one of those lucky enough, but I can’t trust anyone not to put my black clothes in the dryer, and what happened was that while it was a major pain to leave the shul-house in the middle of the night with heavy piles of laundry, sometimes in the freezing rain or snow, brave hellacious Bergenline Avenue, try to find a spot in that farshtunkene lot, and then spend the next 2 plus hours shoving clothes in various stages of cleanliness and humectation with a tarjeta that only worked the EXACT OPPOSITE way the arrow pointed, bedeviling me every freakin’ time—I started to enjoy those moments, between loads and amid the freneticism, yea even away from mommydom and wifedom, when I could be alone.

I always bought Mario a fancy ice tea and a King Size Almond Joy from CVS. The first time I did it, he was very surprised. After that, he would see me go out to get my Caffeine Free Diet Coke and little package of cashews (38 minutes before the spin cycle) and wait happily for his treat.  He started to share his life story with me—apparently he worked three jobs so his daughter could go to medical school. He hated either his ex-wife or his mother, frankly he spoke very quickly, and it had been a long time since I was Senor Greenberg’s star Spanish student in High School.  Verdad!

When I was first married, I lived in a tiny apartment in Forest Hills. Both Robert and I worked full time and we sprung for the full service, which included pickup and delivery.

Every Thursday at 7:30AM, before the mad dash to the E or F train, one of us would call and they would answer in the thickest, juiciest of Russian accents: HALLO LUNDREE CENTR!

Within three minutes we would hear the buzz from downstairs, then the elevator would groan and we would meet them at the door with our mesh bag.

At night, same thing in reverse.

They were so fast and efficient, that one morning I swear we heard the buzz downstairs before we even made the call. We looked at each other? Did you? No. HALLO LUNDREE CENTER!

Anyway, this went on for about three years.

And then, one Thursday morning, we called. And they picked up. HALLO REAL ISTATE.

Silence. Wait, isn’t this LUNDRY CENTR?

Excuse me, isn’t this LUNDRY CENTR?

NO. Same thick, juicy Russian accent. NO. NO LUNDRY CENTR.  REAL ISTATE.

You know, they never acknowledged that they had ever been LUNDRY CENTR. Never. I passed by their place on 108^th street a week or so later and there was a big Real Estate sign. No sign of any washers or dryers.  There were lots of Russian people moving into the neighborhood and I guess it was a better business.

I also guess that more than any of the other homemakers arts, I take laundry seriously.  I’m a pretty good cook, sweep enough to keep the dustbunnies at bay, and shpritz the Lysol around in the bathroom, but I really make sure the kids and Sruli always have full drawers of clean socks. Sruli even makes fun of my zealousness, but then he will turn around and thank me for doing laundry right before a trip so that he has enough black gig clothes to choose from.

Thirteen months.

This past summer, in our beautiful new house in beautiful Maine, the appliance gods delivered two large gifts.

Brand new Whirlpools. High Efficiency. Washer and Dryer. Shiny and White. 

My very own LUNDRY CENTR.

I put in a full load of little socks, underwear, and pink kitty and blue robot size 5T sleepers.

I thought about my long nights with a tired me and an overworked Mario. And all those people with their candy eating kids who were probably there right now watching The Young and the Restless Latinos scream at full volume.

It was very quiet as I pressed the button.

The machine started to whirl.

And I started to cry.

Jumping In

Friday was the great Puddle Jump at Bates College, and that night in the cafeteria things were rowdy and ecstatic.

I watched the students, their hair still wet from jumping into the hole that maintenance jackhammered into the frozen Maine pond—the ice over a foot thick.

Some wore full-body giraffe or bunny costumes, many had been seriously drinking, maybe illegally, but they all had that elated, leonine roll to their walk—young superheroes whose bodies could do anything.

When I was 22, I puddle jumped too. I was already out of college; in fact I was on my honeymoon.

I jumped for God. And for sex.

Observant Jewish women cannot have sex when they are menstruating—can’t have sex when they are bleeding at all for any reason, like, say, just having given up your virginity on your wedding night, and can’t have sex for seven days thereafter.

That brought me to the eighth day of my marriage, and we were in London.

It was Friday and we were due to spend Shabbos at Oxford University with my oldest friend who was “taking a letter” with William Wordsworth’s great great great something grandson.

We were planning to stop by the London mikveh, or ritual bath, on the way to Oxford, so I could dunk, say the blessing, and be happily, carnally consecrated to my husband that very night.

I still remember the roundabout that we rounded and rounded and rounded in our rented black Mercedes, trying to find the damned mikveh as the sun got ever lower in the sky.

I was out of my mind. If I couldn’t get to the mikveh, I couldn’t have sex, and we were leaving already on Sunday, and I would be the only bride in the entire universe who did not have sex on her honeymoon.

I also still remember the decision we made that we would try one more round—mikvehs are supposed to be discreetly located—and if we couldn’t find it we would just go to Oxford. And we didn’t find it.

It was inconceivable (ha!) that my new husband would have unkosher sex. I think now about how important the mikveh was in our marriage, and how important it was to my newly married friends.

We new brides would meet sometimes regularly on Saturday nights at the Forest Hills mikveh—our Pill schedules in synch. The mikveh lady there was so holy—a very young and beautiful Lubavitcher woman who would piously check my toenails for polish and carefully, prayerfully, pull off a stray eyelash that had fallen onto my scrubbed shoulders.  There could be no barrier between my body and the waters.              

I loved the way she would say “Ka-SHER!” as I emerged from the second dunk, the one you do after saying the blessing that was hanging, laminated, over the beautifully modern tile bath, as I modestly covered my breasts, walked up the stairs, and accepted the fluffy white robe she held high so as not to see me naked.

She didn’t have any children of her own for the longest time and I always wondered who her mikveh lady was. Later, many years later, I went back to visit her and found her with six children. All girls. Oh well.

When I lived in Scarsdale I was special friends with all the women who mikvehed.  We laughed about it, we winked about it, but we loved being in the club. It was a godly club, the best kind of club that combined abstinence and discipline with… hoo-ha!

The mikveh lady there was also my son Aaron’s nursery school teacher. She was chatty and matter of fact—perfect for her after-school job. Sometimes we would hang out with her for a few minutes before heading home; she was a widow, and I guess we felt guilty knowing what we had waiting for us, and what she didn’t.

I have a different feeling about mikveh now, of course. Intellectually it feels like a woman’s natural, crucial functions are placed in a category less important, less seemly than a man’s. Emotionally, like a part of you must be hidden and despised for uncleanliness. And practically, it was a drag, going out in the cold, at night, getting wet, and (hey, this was Scarsdale!) timing your manicures and pedicures to get the most out of them.

But sex after the mikveh was hot. I have to admit that waiting two weeks (hey, we were young here!) made it more special, and you didn’t plan anything else for the night.

And this, my honeymoon, was supposed to be my first married mikveh.

My old friend took one look at my face when we got to Oxford and felt my pain. He and I grew up together, our birthdays one day apart and our parents used to come up to Camp Moshava on visiting day and sing “Happy Birthday Lisa and Doooooo-----ooooov” over our shared cake. I think they all secretly hoped we would marry but it was never like that between us.

Dov took us on a tour of the University. We sat where Churchill sat. We met an organist at one of the churches. We met the Hillel students at Balliol College and were invited to shaleshudes, the final Sabbath meal the next day. And then we passed the Cherwell River. The Crew team was out, and looking fine. The Cherwell River. A natural body of water.  And any natural body of water can be—a mikveh.

Dov looked at me and I looked at Dov. I don’t remember my new husband even being part of the plot.

We had shaleshudes at Balliol and sang some songs while we waited for it to get dark. Sabbath over, we heated up the Mercedes and drove to the riverbank.

I had my bathing suit on under my clothes. The plan was for me to jump in the river, take off my bathing suit, throw it on the bank, dunk completely, say the blessing, put the bathing suit back on under the water and come out. Ka-SHER!

And I wouldn’t be naked in front of Dov.

But it was late October. The Cherwell flows 40 miles before it meets with the Thames at Oxford. Flowing rivers are cold. Very, very cold.

I jumped in the dark into that black river with all the courage and arrogance I have ever had, then and now.

And froze. My bones cramped up instantly; I couldn’t move. I gulped for air and came up shrieking silently, my mouth and nose full of water, my eyes bulging, my entire body shaking, shaking.

I was pulled out of the river. And then, ladies and gentlemen, I growled “NO!” and tore off my bathing suit. And jumped back into the river.

I said that blessing.

And when I was pulled out the second time, I didn’t give a damn if William Wordsworth himself saw me.

I had mikvehed. I was kosher. I was going to have sex.

I also had blisters from the cold running up and down my arms, like burns. The men wrapped me with yellow blankets they had taken from the dorms.  They threw me into the back of the warm car.

We went out to dinner, the three of us, beaming. I remember a place with lots of plants. I was elated, a superhero who could do anything. And what a great story!

All this going through my mind as I watch the college students with their hair still wet.

A twenty-one year marriage that brought me to an age, when it was over, where I had been married as long as I hadn’t been married.

Where, in youthful impatience, I had placed importance on the wrong things and not enough on the right things like respect, friendship and actually being able to talk to each other.

Where maybe had I left my little world and gone to a different college, like this one, I would have learned the thing, whatever it was, that would have not made me need to marry so young, need to marry for sex.

Here I sit, in the cafeteria, my leonine days behind me.

Thinking about the many directions in which I could have, should have, jumped.

A Rebbetzin's First Christmas

Except for one little flub, I think I did ok.

First, I wore a hat. That wasn’t the flub. A little black oval, a cross (ha!) between a pillbox and a fascinator.

The Christmas Candlelight service was at 4PM. That’s evening for Maine.

East Auburn Baptist was packed with about four hundred people—that’s a mega-church for Maine.

Light bridges, the kind DJ’s use, formed a red and green skyline on the stage, and there were big bowls of electric flowers, an empty manger, and of course, an enormous, pinewood (did I mention we were in Maine?) cross.

A woman with huge hair and a huge, heartfelt voice opened with Hark the Herald Angels Sing—the words bright on the giant screens flanking the stage.

That was my first test. "The Everlasting Lord." Mumble? Or sing normally? I decided to sing normally. There were too many pious folks watching.

I held the unlit candles—they were going to be lit for the last song-- and tried to keep my five year old boy/girl twins quiet. My little daughter craned her neck. “Where’s KATELYN?" I couldn’t make out her “bestie” either, which was, frankly, the reason we were here. Every time I rose from my seat this smiley usher rushed over to find out if I was ok. Maybe it was the hat.

Meantime, there seemed to be a variety show going on. A trio of young people singing. A singing musical family. An interpretive dance. Another singer with a canned country music. Finally, Pastor Roger came out to welcome everyone.

He was youngish, with rolled up sleeves and a lean-in manner. He is very well liked by the entire congregation; when do you hear THAT in a shul? He was in full pacing and performance mode, since, as my husband-the-rabbi later pointed out ,(I couldn’t find him in the crowd either, turns out he was sitting with Katelyn and her family; that’ll teach me to let him drop me off while he parks the car) this service is the pastor’s  Kol Nidre.

Pastor Roger strode the stage, exhorted the crowd to sing, and sang along loudly into his mic, louder than the four hundred of us together.

He worried aloud that we would just sing the words, and that we wouldn’t feel what was being said. It reminded me so much of my eight grade Hebrew teacher—you are not FEELING the DAVENIN!, she would moan, adjusting her bright blonde wig. He showed a video that had a choir singing gibberish syllables to Joy to the World. Do you get it? Do you get it? 

He then brought out one of the church elders who brought the manger prop center stage. The elder described how 2000 years ago, Bethlehem was considered “on the other side of the tracks,” yet another symbol of the humble beginnings of the Savior. The shepherds had to find the manger that held the lambs that were being groomed for sacrifice. “How ironic,” the elder said,” how ironic,” his voice rising, “that this little babe, started out in a manger…” Groomed for sacrifice. I got it. I got it.

Another video showed a re-enactment of Joseph carrying the pregnant Mary and gently placing her onto a cart and then making her comfortable in the hay, since there was no room at the inn. We see a very dark and beautiful Mary and an adorable dark little baby, as the scene cuts to the shepherds being blinded by the light of the Star of Bethlehem. They hasten to the manger and gather around the baby. Fade to black. There were maybe two people in the entire audience with Mary’s skin color—Maine, again.

But the concept of a newborn in a stable of hay, the lowly made divine is very powerful, it's what we say about the relatively small Mount Sinai. And I must say, my little twins loved the Baby Jesus. I can only imagine what it must be like to grow up with this notion of an innocent babe growing up only to die for my sins. The ultimate gift from an all-loving God. I wonder if every Christian shudders when he reaches 33, the age that Jesus was martyred.

I don’t think that way about my God. Week after week He says, “Damn lucky I’m a forgiving sort, because otherwise I would not send the rains!” I used to ask that eighth grade teacher with the blonde sheitl why we have to keep saying the same prayers every day and why God needs it and why can’t I just meet you all in the caf after davening?

“He doesn’t need it,” she would whisper sadly. “YOU need it.”

Well apparently, their God doesn’t need to drag things out, either.  Unlike any shul service I have ever been to, this one was a cool hour. That’s it. Ok, no Kiddush.

At the last song, Silent Night, the ushers came down the center aisle, and lit the candle of the person on either side. The flame was shared and passed across to everyone, row by row. The whole church lit up.

I wish I could have enjoyed the spirituality more, but I was apoplectic, trying to keep my five year old boy twin (Jews would NEVER have given him his own candle!) from igniting his curly blond head. That song has many, many verses and he really, really can’t keep still, and oy, was I on shpilkes.

Afterwards though, Katelyn’s family was thrilled to see us, and very, very touched that we came. Maybe God doesn’t need it, but His flock likes to be together. Katelyn’s mom told me that they borrowed a Chanukah menorah and lit candles every night. Amazing.

And that’s the difference between me then and there, the New York City yeshiva girl, and here and now, the Maine Rebbetzin.

There, I would never have gone to a church service, even after I evolved to realize it wasn’t a sin.

Here my husband and I have gone to many interfaith events and quite a few non-Jewish people are regulars at our shul, though they do not count for minyan.

Congregants at our last shul would have been horrified; instead the congregants here were thrilled. Such a nice gesture. What a wonderful act  of respect.

When I was a little girl, my Bubby lived next door to a lady with the whitest hair I’d ever seen. Her name was Mrs. Golt and she lived with her daughter Ruthie. On Christmas Eve, the two ladies (they looked exactly the same age to me: old) came over with the most colorful and delicious cookies. I’m probably the age of Ruthie now, and I can still remember the pink and green sugar and the way the buttery cookie would clot up in my mouth, before I swallowed it.  Jews used margarine. Not the same thing.

I mention this, because my night was not over.

We got the twinkies in the car again and drove to our new friend Pastor Rick’s church. He comes to our shul especially for Torah Study.

There was a live nativity. Shepherds, kings, the first family and, to the twinkies’ delight—goats, lambs and even a little pony. He was a stand in for the donkey. Our kids were invited to join the scene and stood there, petting the lambs. I did not take a picture for my parents.

This church was not mega. It was exactly what you would expect under those picturesque steeples you see when you drive through New England. White. Spare. Lit with tiny twinkly lights.

We sat in small pews and sang along with the organ between readings from the Old and New Testaments. I preferred the quiet of this service. It seemed more real, somehow.

And afterwards there were butter cookies.

The older I get the more I realize that, margarine notwithstanding, most religions are the same.  And even more important to me right now, clergymen (and women) are even more the same.

There are way fewer people of faith out there, and pastors and rabbis are constantly reprogramming , to “khop” or corral them.

A variety show that uses members of the congregation ensures that the family of those members will also come out to see them. Live nativities bring out younger families. At our shul, we have lots of food.

I know how hard my husband and I work to make our services different, relevant, special. It was instructive to see what everyone else was doing.

And it was nice to blur the lines a little. I’m glad my kids will grow up knowing a lot more about Christianity than I ever did.
And they will be more comfortable with it, with churches and pastors and they will not stutter and flub.

When Pastor Rick came down from the bima, there was a line to greet him and wish him well.

My turn came upon me suddenly, and there he was, taking my hand in both of his, a big smile on his face.

“Oh,” I looked up earnestly. Good Yuntiff!”

Empty Shell

Everyone knew the big secret about Filbert the Turtle, so I guess it wasn’t much of a secret.

We got him the day we moved up to Westchester—we’re movin’ on up! as the Jefferson’s song went—from our small 2-bedroom in Queens.

The husband didn’t like Long Island and I didn’t like Jersey, so where’s an ambitious, young Jewish couple to go?

Westchester was the golden land—beautiful houses, magnificent trees, chill people—and only 25 minutes on Metro North to our jobs in NYC.

While the moving guys schlepped, I took five-year-old Zachary in one hand and the five months of Aaron in my belly and we set out to Petland Discounts.

It was like he was waiting for us.

I bought the whole kit and caboodle—including a pricey warming light—and set him up on a counter in our new kitchen, and invited every kid on the block to the first-ever Turtle Party.

Not to brag, but I kinda outdid myself at those parties, which became  semi-annual.

Turtle races (slowest wins, but you have to keep moving), design your own turtle shell, decorate a turtle cupcake—and, for a finale—Filbert himself would make an appearance while the older kids vied to touch him and the younger ones shrieked and ran away.

Filbert liked yellow pepper. Not red, not green, yellow.

I would cut it in fresh crispy chunks and put it on his dish across from the round rock my mother got him.

He would pivot, stick out his cute turtle neck, and clomp a u-turn, thwacking into whatever was there—the glass wall, the rock—and make for the pepper.

It was fascinating to watch him eat and kids would pop by just for the show.

He would stare the pepper chunk down, twisting his pointy little head from side to side, gauging the best way to charge.

Then- snap! His mouth would open and his whole body would thrust forward, closing over the pepper and tearing off the bite with a little shake of his head.

Then he would sort of step back, and do it all again: the stare, the twist, the charge, the snap, the bite, the shake.

It took a while to get through a chunk, but turtles aren’t known for speed, and anyway, a fatty like me could learn a thing or two from watching careful eating and savoring.

It was kind of exciting, having a turtle. Exotic, but not creepy like a rodent or scary like a snake.

And the reptile/human connection was very encouraging.

I would put Filbert down on the kitchen floor and walk in different directions. Damned if he didn’t follow me every time.

And he smiled. I swear this. Everyone remarked on it. He had a happy disposition and never complained if his cage stank or if I forgot to freshen his water in the evening.

When I would come into the kitchen he would do one of those clomping u-turns from wherever, come over and thwack against the glass, lifting one of those Maurice Sendak-ish zig-zag feet to say hello.

I would take him out and hold him right up to my face and stroke his shell, and he’d stick out turtleneck and pointy head as far as it would go so that I could pat it.

Once, he actually made a sound. I had him in full frontal, face to face, and he suddenly breathed out of his nostrils: “Hnnnsss.” 

Teeny bubbles came out of his nose and I couldn’t help laughing.  He never did it again.

I must’ve talked about him some at work, because when my bosses at Ogilvy called me in to give me a raise (!) they said, “We want to make sure to keep your turtle in yellow pepper.”

Filbert was the “Old Maid” in the special-edition-personalized-one-of-a-kind-game-deck for Zachary and Aaron I drew, that featured their instruments (Sax and piano—a match!) our cars (Honda CRV and Chevy Cavalier—a match!) and their hobbies (Yugioh and Nintendo—a match!). And Filbert was included in all holiday cards and greetings from the family.

My babysitter loved the tortuga. My Yiddish theatre friends admired the shuldkrit. Aaron’s Russian piano teacher played for the cherepakha.

Special, I tell you.

And then there was the divorce, the great leaving of Westchester, the acquisition of the dogs, the million gallon fish tank, the birth of the twins and the move to Jersey.

It was Sruli and me and our menagerie.

The twins loved him too—the dogs not so much—stereo screeching when I brought the turtle out and duet kvetching when I put him back and made them wash their hands.

He endured the rough handling of the Shabbos kids at Sruli’s shul in North Bergen, and the not-so-good-for-him shtips from the not-so-nice cleaning lady there, whom I begged not to sneak him tomato, dammit.

He starred at Show and Tell at Pre-K (Charlie and Johnny said EVERYONE got a chance to hold him—nebikh) and a few mothers called me afterwards to ask where to buy a turtle—their kids were desperate.

He was the Old Maid again in the special-edition-personalized-one-of-a-kind-game-deck I made for Johnny and Charlie (a match!)  Scrambled eggs and sunnyside up—a match!  Target and Walmart—a match! Filbert—oh no!

Filbert (and we) looked out onto four different kitchens before we moved him to our bungalow on the Jersey shore.

The move almost killed me; we had to put a lot of stuff in storage and work our moving trips around Sruli’s job at the temple and the twins’ school.

If Filbert felt our stress he never showed it.

His terrarium took up a lot of trunk space and we made a special trip primarily to move him. It was the end of March and the Jersey Shore was feeling like spring.

We set Filbert up in the Florida room and he would thwak the glass genially whenever I walked by.

He was still in hibernation mode, so he wasn’t eating the food I put out for him.

We went back up to North Jersey, planning to come back down in a week.

Three days later there was a snowstorm.

The bungalow had been set for 55 so I didn’t think there’d be a problem.

I didn’t think, or I would have called a neighbor down there.

I didn’t think, because I was crazy busy moving and arranging for Charlie Re’s open-heart surgery and interviewing for Sruli’s new job up in Maine.

And when I came down later that week, Filbert was lying on the glass floor of his terrarium, his limbs all splayed out, smiling.

I screamed. I picked him up. I held his stiff little self in the air. I stroked his head. Nothing.

I got on the internet and read that a warm bath can resurrect a turtle.

I bolted up and took out my best pyrex and filled it with warm water and placed Filbert inside. I stared at him, on and off, for twenty-four hours. Nothing.

I cannot describe my apoplexy.  I could not stop sobbing. Loud, uncontrolled sobs. I called the boys. I begged forgiveness from them, I begged forgiveness from Filbert. I had never, ever felt so guilty and so totally, completely out of control of my life.

I could not save Filbert.

I could not protect my daughter from her own heart. I could not help my son Aaron from having to start in September at a college he didn’t want to go to because his rich father refused to pay for the one he wanted to go to, and I couldn’t afford it myself. I could not deal with moving again and again. I could not guarantee that anything, forever and ever, would ever work out.

Nineteen years I had him, nineteen years, and now he was gone.

Nineteen years ago I was starting a new life, too. Here I was, doing it again, and I felt like a failure.

I couldn’t bear to bury him--in case the warm bath took a little more time to magick its resurrection.

I couldn’t bear to walk by the pyrex and see that smile.

I went outside near my little fig tree and dug a hole. I wrapped my turtle in a plastic Shoprite bag and placed him in the earth. I got a large flat piece of slate and wrote Filbert on it and drew a little turtle.

I said a blessing in Hebrew.

And then I went around the back of my bungalow, leaned my head on my hand on the corner and cried. Wracking, shaking cries. For a long time.

Three days I cried. On the fourth day, the family went to the boardwalk in Ocean City and I bought myself a small turtle charm necklace at my favorite artsy jewelry store and I haven’t taken it off. It’s the only thing that makes me feel better. Weird.

I write this now, 6 months later and I am still not whole.

But things have worked out. Charlie Re is, thank God, on the other side of a successful operation and she is fine. Aaron is making the most of his college life and his weekends are busy with his fabulous girlfriend.

Here in our new life in beautiful Maine, Sruli is working happily and hard, we have a house I love, and the twinkies are thriving. So are the dogs and the fish.

I still mourn Filbert and whenever I see a Turtle Crossing sign or a painting of sea creatures, or even a stuffed animal turtle, I turn away in shame. I think it will always be so.

In Kabbalah there is a concept of “Klipoth,” empty shells. The idea is that you have to fill those shells with goodness, with bravery, with kindness and thus will you create a better world.

On our very last day in South Jersey, as the moving truck sat in our driveway, I made a quick trip to Home Depot to get a few more boxes.

We were planning to leave in a few hours—going all the way up to Maine.

As I neared the bungalow I saw something in the road.

I stopped the car.

Ezekiel was beautiful, an Eastern Box Turtle, with a high domed shell and magnificent amber markings.

I checked the internet: red eyes, a male.

Filbert had been a female—that was the big, open secret. 

Apparently, the salesguy said he was male, but the maven at the register said—no the tail’s too short, he is a she.

Trouble was, by the time we got to the register, Filbert had been named-- after that nerdy turtle in Rocko’s Modern Life, Zachary’s favorite show—and it wasn’t like there were going to be any babies, so she was a he from then on. Modern Life indeed.

I showed Ezekiel to Sruli. “I see he already has a name,” Sruli said. “You know, he’s a wild turtle; you really shouldn’t keep him.”

I found a little plastic box and jabbed some air holes with a scissors. I stroked his shell.  After a bit, he poked his head out and looked at me with those red eyes. His mouth wasn’t naturally smiley—it came down to a tiny frowny point.

I figured I would stop at a pet shop along the way and get some food and a better box for the trip. I texted pictures of him to Zachary and Aaron and Ilana. I decided he would stay in my new kitchen, with me.

I felt filled up, elated. I was redeemed.

And then, a few hours later, I made the left turn out of the bungalow complex and passed the place where Ezekiel had been crossing the road.

I stopped the car. I took out the little plastic box. I crossed to the other side, in the direction he had been going.

Maybe I had saved his life by getting him off the road. But that wasn’t really enough, was it?

I put the box down gently onto the fallen leaves and grass and muck.

And then I did something I couldn’t do for Filbert.

I let him go.