Pebbles on the Grave

When I converted to Judaism, something I learned very early on during a marathon of Jewish and Holocaust movies (not to mention the show Dead Like Me) was the tradition of placing stones on the graves or headstones of the deceased. Where I come from (Christian Middle America), flowers are the item of choice for visiting deceased loved ones. It was a ritual that we partook in every Memorial Day when we'd drive to Kansas City and visit the graves of my grandmother, grandfather, and other relatives buried there. We purchased the plastic, tacky memorial flowers and wreaths, and at some point, days or weeks later, someone would be forced to come through and remove the harmful-to-nature plastic concoctions. 

In 2008, on a genealogy roadtrip, I found the grave of my great grandfather and great grandmother.
Not knowing why, and knowing that they weren't Jewish, I placed stones on their graves.

I never asked anyone why Jews don't do flowers at funerals or gravesites; it was something Jews do. It's part of the choreography of death, following the timeline of shiva (the week-long period of mourning) and matzevah (unveiling of the tombstone). Why didn't I inquire? I might have Googled it, or I might have read about it in a book, but it became part of my personal choreography of being Jewish. Sometimes, we just don't think about the things we do. But perhaps we should.

So, when visiting the grave of a Jew, the custom is to place a small stone on the grave using the left hand. According to Wikipedia, "this shows that someone visited the gravesite, and is also a way of participating in the mitzvah of burial." Likewise, Rabbi Simmons of Aish.com says, "we place stones on top of a gravestone whenever we visit to indicate our participation in the mitzvah of erecting a tombstone, even if only in a more symbolic way." According to Talmud Bavli, Masechet Mo'ed Katan, in Biblical times graves were marked with mounds of stones (an example being when Rachel died), so by placing or replacing the stones, one plays a role in perpetuating the existence of the site and the memory of that person buried there.

But the reality is that stones had been used forever for burial. In ancient times, bodies were covered with large boulders or stones to keep animals from picking away the flesh and desecrating the body. It likely didn't play any kind of religious or supernatural role, but more of a practical role. Perhaps our meaningful act of placing a stone on the grave of a Jew threads back to this practical set of origins. But when did that transition in understanding -- of practical to mitzvah-making -- happen? Who can be sure.

Today, to place a stone on a gravestone says, to me, that I was there, I remembered, and I cared. Ultimately, it's more about the visitor than the buried, I think. What do you think?

As an aside, matzevah actually means monument, and although there is no halachic obligation to hold an unveiling ceremony, in the 19th century it became a popular ritual. Some unveil the tombstone a year after the burial, some a week after the burial. (I've seen the former more than the latter.) In Israel, as it turns out, the stone is unveiled after shloshim, or the first 30 days of mourning.

This blog post came out of my beginning to read "Jerusalem, Jerusalem" by the author of "Constantine's Sword" in combination with finding out that a dear family friend, Zitta Weiss, passed away on August 17. Zitta was a survivor of the Holocaust and an amazing and memorable soul. My first shiva call ever was at the home of Zitta when her brother died. And now? I suppose I'm coming back to where my Jewish bereavement experience began. Back to Zitta's home, but to mourn the woman herself. She was born on May 5, 1929. Baruch Dayan ha'Emet. 

A Jewish Funeral Experience

It's been around 13 years since I attended a funeral. At least, that's the last one I remember. It was my Uncle David, who wasn't really my Uncle David. I wrote a poem about it in college, recollecting the man who was more of a grandfather figure to me than anything else. Uncle David was my father's step-mother's family, distant, but oh-so-close to my father and to us kids. From the poem, "Uncle David Stole My Nose" ...

When I think about the funeral,
I remember looking into the casket
and seeing Uncle David’s face.
I remember, at that awkward age between
childhood and becoming a young woman,
wondering why he wasn’t smiling.
I remember telling my father, as we
left the burial site after crying and hugging
and holding relatives close, that Uncle
David’s lips should have been curved up.
Smiling as he always was.
Because that’s how everyone knew him,
that’s how I knew him,
when he was alive. ... 

I’ve try to forget the funeral and the burial,
while trying to keep Uncle David as
he was the last time I saw him before
he looked so sad in that big black box.
But I continue to recall driving past the Big Boy
where we’d eat with Uncle David every
now and then when we visited.
I remember crying and thinking about how
empty my dad was, because he’d
lost a father figure. But I know I cried
mostly because I’d lost a
Grandfather, and my nose would stay put
and I realized I was no longer
a child.

That funeral took place during a bizarre weekend where there was a wedding and a funeral. Emotional ups and downs were extreme. But this is my memory of funerals -- Christian funerals. 

Until this past week, I had not been to a Jewish funeral. I've written about paying shiva calls and the difficulty of really coming to terms with that tradition, but nothing could have prepared me for this week. I was, in plain words, an emotional wreck graveside. 

At my Uncle's funeral, it began with service at the funeral chapel, there were Bible verses read, the mood was depressing and morose, and seeing my dead uncle in the box put a forever-image in my head. We all took off to the graveside service afterward, where, everyone, dressed in black, huddled around the plot that had been carved out. The beautiful casket was held on props while words were said, words from the Bible were read, and then we departed. Only after that was the casket lowered -- we didn't watch the casket go down. We left knowing that he was still floating somewhere above the service. 

At Roszi's funeral (I blogged about her passing here) -- as I assume is true at all Jewish funerals -- the casket was lowered simply in its wooden-box form into the space in the ground. A rabbi related Roszi's life to those of us huddled under umbrellas in the cold rain, and then, then the men took a shovel and heaved dirt onto the wooden casket. 

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

And I lost it. I don't know why, but my tears just streamed -- and as I write this, my eyes are welling ... and I just don't know why. The sound of dirt -- dirt to dirt -- hitting a simple wooden casket was something I hadn't expected. Something that, to be honest, would never have happened at a funeral back home, back in my old life. The sounds ruptured something deep within me, emotions for a woman who I had barely known and who had not known me at all. 

"How many times did you even meet Roszi?" my husband asked after the funeral. 

I suppose that this is the purpose of such a visceral display of Jewish burial. It is participatory, permanent, and real. In a way, I suppose it seals the truth and the reality of what has happened. As people started to walk away, people were chattering and smiling and everyone except for the immediate family and I seemed to be unshaken by the events. 

I started to wonder: Have I become a softy? Overemotional? Or was it simply my neshama crying out for the loss of a soul so tortured for absolutely no reason.

Learning How to Grieve.

I woke up yesterday morning to a series of emails telling me that a Holocaust survivor from shul had passed away, that a student from UConn who was beaten badly during Spring Weekend had died, and most harrowing, that the mother of a very good friend at synagogue had passed away after a year-and-a-half-long illness. I immediately decided that going back to bed would have been more productive than walking into a world of death and its resultant grief and sadness. I then got news: "Guess where Person X is?!" Yes, probably my best friend in the synagogue community had gone into labor and by the early afternoon the world welcomed new life -- new, beautiful, living life. The circle of life, then, was complete.

I've never been good at dealing with or expressing emotions related to grieving. I'm rock solid; tears don't penetrate the surface -- I choke them, suffocate them, stuff them back into their unnecessarily emotional box. I just don't cry.

Tuvia found out on Friday that his boss had died the night before. For those keeping score at home, that's the announcement of four deaths in my orbit over four days. Throw in Melissa Redgrave, who happens to not be in my orbit, and we've got five in four days. Throw in the thousands more than died over the past four days, and the orbit has lost its center. Tuvia thus went to a service yesterday and today, leaving his bereavement meeting today to go to a funeral.

I'd never been to a Jewish funeral before. I've been to a few non-Jewish funerals in my time, the most vivid in my mind that of my Uncle David Pittman. He died in 1998 after 64 years of life, although I remember him being much older, more like a grandfather to me. He wasn't a blood relative, but a relative by the second marriage of my father's father, my grandfather. After that marriage, my grandfather had a short life and died of a heart attack in the 1960s. Uncle David Pittman, related to my father's step-mother, became a father to him. Growing up, I used to sit on Uncle David's knee and he'd steal my nose; it was his favorite trick with kids. He owned a locksmith store, and for a long time after he died I held onto the last yearly calendar with his store's information on it remained somewhere in my bedroom. The funny, or rather morbid, thing about his funeral was that it took place the same weekend as his son's wedding. Wedding and a funeral, a classic.

I think then, at age 14 or 15, I wasn't completely cognizant of death or what it meant for me. I don't remember crying, I don't remember needing to grieve. He was just gone.

The funeral today left me teary eyed. I choked the tears, else I would have lost it. I've been doing that a lot lately; my emotions are becoming real, and I have never learned how to deal with them. Writing this even has me teared up in a big green couch in Starbucks.

The woman who we honored today died at the age of 57. Fifty. Seven. My father turns 57 in August; it was sobering. I can't imagine having to bury my own parents, despite our distance and the space that creeps between us as the years roll on. They say that it's unimaginable when a parent has to bury his or her child, but the road cuts both ways as they say. When the parent is young, when grandchildren have yet to be born and simchas have yet to be experienced, it's inconceivable.

How do we grieve? For me, life is meant to be celebrated, even at death, and tears should be held, choked, crushed. But that's the me that understands emotion as weakness talking. The tide is changing and my emotions are reversed -- they're crushing me. Coping is what I need to learn. Figuring out how to grieve the loss of those alive and distant, as well as those gone in body but not spirit. I've always been strong, and tears shouldn't mean anything but that.

Here's to the spirits of those lost in my orbit as of late. Baruch dayen emet.

And Then, I Wept for Six Million.

This is my 1,000th blog post here on Just Call Me Chaviva. It's been a good and educational run so far, and during my four years here, I've mapped my way through two degrees (the B.A. and upcoming M.A.), three streams of Judaism, four towns, eight houses/apartments of residence, and countless bad dates that have resulted in my current engagement to Tuvia. I could numerate a dozen other things (books read, cities traveled, movies watched, angry/inappropriate blog post comments), but I won't waste your time. I wanted to stress how long I've been blogging and how big this post is for me -- and ultimately for you -- and the best way I can do this is through just writing the darn thing. So here goes. Enjoy this 1,000th post, comment, and let me know what you think. Oh, and keep reading!

I spent the past few days traversing the East Coast, with the eventual goal of landing in Washington D.C. and at the U.S. Holocaust Museum with a class from my university that I'm not even in. The head of the department planned the trip, which was funded by an awesome couple that literally (I mean that, too, building floors and laboring on buildings back in the day) helped build the university, and I was invited along because I'm a graduate student. I said yes, knowing that, as I've said a million times before, the Holocaust is a difficult thing for converts to connect to. I've been twice before, once in January 2003 and once on a JDate (right) in 2006. Four years later, and I'm in a different place entirely. This blog, for one, has followed me through those four years of growing from Reform Conversion to Orthodox Conversion and all the chaos, tears, and education in between. The last two trips to the museum for me were not particularly emotional. I was stunned, yes, but not emotional. I wasn't involved. I wasn't in the trenches of the Holocaust; there was no memory.

Now? I'm marrying into the memory of the Holocaust. Tuvia's family has Holocaust survivors and stories that are still yet untold. I walked into that museum entrenched in the emotion of two new families: my Jewish family and my future in-laws.

The tour was guided. There were about 20 of us, two docents -- one a retired lawyer, the other a retired doctor -- and several floors of stories, photos, and horror. Lots of random people ended up following us and listening to the docents, who peppered the winding journey with anecdotes about people who they've shown through the museum, people who saw themselves standing near rail cars and in bread lines. I couldn't help but be horrified at the prospect: Walking through a Holocaust museum, staring into a photo of Nazi visions, and seeing yourself or your mother or your father. I looked at every photo in that museum, hoping to see the image of three women I know who survived that horrific vision of Hitler's.

I don't know why, but when I stepped into the museum, I felt different. I've already mentioned that I knew I was walking in with something new, something different, but I didn't know how much it would impact my experience. We made it to the photos. The Tower of Faces. That hall of photos from a village, thousands of people in photos skiing and smiling and eating dinner and hugging and laughing and ... living. And you see them on two floors, and it only took me to the first encounter with them and I teared up. Without tissues, I hesitated. I breathed. I looked at the happy photos and pretended they had names with their faces and that they were just there, in that moment, happy and alive and that that is how they lived and died. On skis. Smiling. Just giggling away. But I know they're dead. I knew there, standing in that hall, listening to the docent tell an anecdote about his granddaughter and Elie Wiesel. I was lost.

We stopped at a bathroom and I grabbed a wad of toilet paper. I had spotted the rail car in the distance, I knew something was coming. A flood. Emotions that I never knew I had, that my neshama has hidden away, yearning something to spark it. Something to help me feel connected, to really get the Shoah.

We carried on, staring at photos from the ghettos. Iron doors and sad faces, people sitting in streets unaware of their eventual fate beyond hunger, thirst, and poverty: death. We rounded a corner, experiencing for a moment the joy of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. And then? The rail car. "Everyone come in," the docent said. "Closer, closer," he said.

CLOSER, he urged.

There we were, ten or eleven of us in that rail car. Gifted to the museum by Poland (how kind of them), placed in the museum while it was still being built. And I lost it. I completely lost it. I imagined what it must have been like -- like I have every other time I was there, but it was different. The air was tight, the light floating inside the small windows was suffocating, the corners smelled like urine, the car was full. Full of death and tears. My tears.

He ushered us out, moving on to photos of individuals arriving at Auschwitz, and I stared into the faces, my eyes blurry, sopping up tears, trying and hoping to see a familiar face. It's probably really morbid that I want to see my future in-laws in those photos, but I want to empathize, I want to see them in those moments they don't talk about. I want to know their story.

The rest of the museum -- up until lunch -- was a blur. Stories of liberation and righteous gentiles, a photo of Chaviva Reik, who paratrooped into the warzone and died. There were striped pajamas and piles of shoes that made me cry again. I looked at them and whispered quietly, "HaShem, where were you?" I marveled at the bible verses in the Memorial Hall, thinking how ironic it is that they're there, after everything, G-d is there. He's always there. Wasn't he? Isn't he?

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky. Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever. Never shall I forget that nocturnal silence which deprived me, for all eternity, of the desire to live. Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never. --Elie Wiesel

By the time we got back to the classroom for lunch, and after I had to beg and plead for more than prepackaged asian noodles for lunch, I had calmed down. Calmed down enough that I sat talking to others and blinking, a lot. I haven't been tired all day, but my eyes, after crying and my mind, after absorbing and processing, left me exhausted. No, it left me depressed.

I just wanted to sleep.

But there was a propaganda exhibit (which I have another post about, believe me), and speakers, and the gift shop, and discussion. There were conversations and complaints about food and space and exhaustion  and in my head I continued to think "we're all so fucking stupid." Stupid, I mean, because our lives? They're a walk in the park. Even with the threat of antiSemitism (think: Monsey as of late), we're not edging as close as we think we are to then. To that life. To that other place where things were ... hell. Where death was at the doorstep. Where life was being sucked out of people. I felt weird complaining about anything. The kosher food, the temperature in the room, my exhaustion. I was sobered. Fast.

My eyes are still foggy. I'm not tired, but my head hurts, my heart hurts. I'm still processing and there are images I can't seem to get out of my head. This one, of a woman in that destroyed village, with long flowing hair; she looked like a gypsy with her headdress, but clearly a Jewess, a Jewess who probably was murdered by the Nazi death machine. Her photo? It was in the Tower of Faces, people from Eishishok in now-Lithuania. I bet she had many suitors in her day.

Suddenly, the Holocaust is my memory. I have a story now, I have a lot of stories. I have too many stories, in boxcars and shoes and images of beautiful, Jewish women. I have my fiance's grandmother's story. And her sisters. My mind is a cloud of darkness and violence and hatred. My eyes? A well of tears that could fill a boxcar. I never thought it would resonate; I never thought I would feel death and aging in my bones like I do right now.

But I'm alive, and I am breathing. I'm not smoke drifting upward, a cloud in formation, dust over the atmosphere. I'm breathing, with bones and blood. I am a Jew. And there was a Holocaust. How do I know? I feel it; I breathe it; when my tears drip, they drip for the 6 million and more.

An End: This post ends on a bus somewhere in Maryland, and Defiance is on the movie screen. Justice makes me smile, living makes me laugh. I just wish the world knew that we're all 99 percent the same. That, folks, is the majority. In most things, the majority wins. So why, in the battle of humanity, do we allow that 1 percent difference to move us to active indifference, collaboration, and murder? I'm exhausted and frustrated with humanity. With genocide and the Holocaust and indifference. Indifference. Do you realize how indifferent we are? My world is topsy turvy right now. My stream of consciousness is dry, my eyes wet. This is where indifference must stop.

Tragedy and hope.

I am completely devastated to hear that Rabbi Gavriel and Rebbetzin Rivka Holtzberg have been killed in the terrorist attacks on Mumbai, India this week. I prayed and waited, watching the news as their 2-year-old son was released with blood-soaked pants from the compound. I watched as two rabbis were let go. And then I watched as they said that the building had been targeted and that Israelis and Americans were being held inside with the rabbi and his wife. And then, today, I watched as their obituaries were released on the internet. The tragedy in its entirety was senseless and stupid. Nearly 200 people have died, hundreds have been injured. Fires blazed, gunshots rang out, and blood soaked the streets. I cannot fathom what the chaos was like, or how incredibly painful the battle was for those who died. But I do know that the Holtzbergs were doing one of the most wonderful things with their life when those lives were taken from them at such young ages (neither was even 30). Jewish outreach is perhaps the greatest thing about Chabad. They place "houses" all over the world so that no matter what corner of the earth you trek to, you can always find your Jewish brothers and sisters, and in a community so small, it is so important to the Jewish people. Thus, this occurrence and loss is devastating and incredibly troubling.

Thus, it is with the tragedy, that I was reading a little pamphlet on Shabbat I got from the Chabad Lubavitch store in West Orange yesterday while buying some books and goodies that I came across the number one reason for women to light Shabbat candles: To add light to a dark world. And right now? The world is a very dark place. I then heard, via Twitter, that the rabbi who was giving the teleconference today about the incident that he said that all Jewish women should light Shabbos candles tonight -- we MUST bring light into the world. And it is as such, that I suggest every last person who reads this thread light Shabbos candles tonight.

Bring light into this dark, dark world. Do your part!

And, it is with these few remarks, that I wish you all a Good Shabbos. May you reflect on the world's darkness and change it in a way that will create waves of light.

(On a lighter note, I'm incredibly amused that the White House sent out a "Merry Hanukkah" card to invite people to a Chanukah reception. The funny thing? There's nothing Chanukah-like about it. It's a horse-drawn carriage pulling up to the White House carrying a Christmas tree on the cart it's pulling. I mean, seriously. Sure, it's nice that they're spreading out their arms to welcome ye olde Jews, but at the same time ... taste should be thought about, no? Never fear, though, the Orthodox Union is defending the card . Which, I'll be honest, seems kinda laughable as well.)

The potpourri: Movies, Books, and Electrocuted Family.

So many things to say, so little space to make it all relevant and/or connected to every other thing that needs to be said.
Firstly, the Sex and the City movie. I guess I won't say as much as I was planning to, simply because it just isn't worth the space. But beware, reading this might ruin the movie-going experience. Wait. On second thought, this stream of consciousness has made me think that maybe I should post my thoughts at the end of the blog so if someone wants to read all the other junk, they're not tainted by my spoiler. Moving on ...

Secondly, I got a bunch of documents in the mail today from the St. Louis Dispatch archives. It amazes me that I can get a couple or three or four documents from one location for a whopping $6, whereas getting marriage licenses from various counties in Illinois is going to cost me upwards of $50. How does that happen? Mom has suggested it isn't worth it, but I'd rather collect the docs now and not have some relative trying to track them down in the future. Better to do the leg work and get it done than wait, eh?

So I received the obituary of my great-grandma's brother, Edward Weilbacher, who had died of electrocution in 1922. It sort of threw me because here's this 19-year-old kid dying of electricity in the early 20s. I was assuming perhaps it was some sort of fratboy incident gone wrong, but as it turns out, he died after being electrocuted while using an electric floor scrubber. The sort of mysterious part, though, is that supposedly it killed him because of a weak heart. His football couch marveled at such a thought (which is why there was an inquest) -- this was a healthy, athletic kid. How could he have had a weak heart? The story in the Dispatch is pretty long for some kid getting electrocuted, and as it turns out, the reason it was such big doings was because he had been the star quarterback and team captain of his high school football team. He was also in a fraternity, so chances are the listing of "scholar" on his death certificate means he was attending university. Where? The obit doesn't say. The obit does list his brothers and sisters, including one brother I was unaware of who isn't buried at the family plot. The mystery woman buried there could, however, be this other brother's wife I guess. Either way, how nifty that he died in such a tragic way. I mean, it isn't nifty ... but finding out these quirks in the tree is fascinating. The funny thing about it, though, is that after he was juiced, they hosed him down and put him back to work. Had they taken him immediately to the hospital, he probably would have survived.

Thirdly, I finished one book and got about 1/3 of the way through another book during flights and airport time this weekend. I finished reading Marc D. Angel's book on Orthodox conversion and then started reading Chaim Potok's "The Promise." The later is an incredibly quick read, and the former was as well. The thing about the former is that it wasn't what I expected in a conversion book. Most of the books I've read are very much about the ins and outs of the process itself and what people do or do not believe. Rabbi Angel's book detailed the history of conversion, the rabbinical rulings and responsa, historical fluxes in the acceptance and avoidance of converts, etc. He talked about the different types of converts and why they choose the path they do, and he included various essays from converts of varying backgrounds and what led them to the Orthodox route. (In more cases than not, the converts started on the Reform route because it was easy and/or accessible, only to find themselves reconverting later or finding a difficulty associated with their original route that led them to the Orthodox beth din.) I'm sort of zipping through books, which is a good thing, considering I have so very many of them to read, and the moment I get to graduate school, my reading style and habits will change greatly.

Fourthly, we come back to the firstly. The Sex and the City movie. I have to say my company was outstanding, and the way all the women in the audience were dressed gave us endless conversation. The estrogen abounded, and my movie companion was definitely outnumbered. But cripes. I found myself so upset at the end of the flick, in dismay, frustrated. Maybe I'm just worn out with the Happily Ever After movies. The scenario that everyone gets what they want, or rather, what we -- the audience -- want for the fictitious characters. Yes, it's a movie. We go to them to be entertained, to escape the sad and lonely existence of life. To watch characters fall in love and live happily ever after. Or, in the case of SATC, we see characters who don't necessarily fall out of love, but fall back in love with themselves. Not everyone in the movie ends up in love and with a spouse and the kids and the car and the house and the dream. But for Samantha, the dream WAS being alone -- being a sexy vixen who can have sex with anything and everything that moves without consequence. It's essentially who she is. So she, too, lives happily ever after. I guess I yearn for surprise. I yearned for Carrie to not end up with Big. For her to somehow realize that all the tumult, the shit, the mess, the breakups and get-back-togethers over 10 years were a sign that it wasn't all meant to be. Nothing's perfect, but anything that is so broken for so long must be like Humpty Dumpty, right? Maybe I just wanted validation. To know that ending my nearly three year on-again/off-again with the supposed man of my dreams was the right choice. Because for the length of that relationship it had been this Carrie/Big comparison, though I knew that there was no comparison. For starters, I wasn't in my 30s. I wasn't a cosmo-drinking sex column writer. I wasn't Carrie and he most certainly wasn't big. The comparisons continued though, as I dated a Russian and other exotics in between the on-agains. It was ridiculous how my friends and I made the connections. Maybe that's why the movie's end irritated the hell out of me. I wanted them to break as my little fantasy had broken six months ago. But it didn't, and life goes on. We want the happily ever after, because it rekindles that hope that maybe we can have what we want. That we should really fight for it. If it can happen in the movies, then ... right?

A girl can dream, anyway. Maybe I had the Mr. Big character in my life all wrong.

Grandfather Would be Dismayed.

My mother sent me a story yesterday, and I didn't manage to open it today. I thought it was probably something irrelevant and "funny" since those tend to be the e-mails I get from her (forwards and what have you). But this e-mail contained a story about the Ozarks chapter of the Pearl Harbors Survivors disbanding.

My grandmother was the lone person who voted against disbanding. I can't imagine how alone she must feel now.

When the group -- started by my grandfather -- began, there were more than 100 members. This was in the 1980s. Today, there are 17 survivors in that chapter, and the youngest is just a hair over 80. Only nine members were at this final meeting; I'm guessing the rest were physically/mentally unable to attend. Thus, nine of the 100 made the decision to disband the chapter.

It's strange to me thinking about World War II how many stories were never told, will never be told. The WW II generations are dying, and there isn't enough time to capture all that's there. Add in that so many of the survivors of camps, the Holocaust, Pearl Harbor, etc. are in such advanced age that memories are not what they once were. Truths are not necessarily facts -- but the embellishments are what make the memories worth listening to all the while.

There's a video on the site, but I can't get it to load. If I do, I'll post it.

I just wanted to mention this. It's one of those sad realizations that as time goes on, the events that shape our world do indeed fade away sometimes with those who saw them with their own eyes. I imagine that in 60 years, this is what will be happening to my generation when it comes to 9/11. It's weird to think about. It's really sobering.

A rest, and a realization.

I turned on the TV to the Southside Irish Parade here in Chicago -- a prideful, celebratory day of drunkenness and revelry to honor St. Patrick's Day (still a week or so off). I flipped a few channels away and I'm now watching the Jewish Americans on PBS. The portion celebrates the Jewish integration into American society in the 1950s. And then ...

I'm trying to figure out how I missed it. The massacre. The small scale destruction of my people, that surely represents the desires, the need for the complete destruction of my people. It happened on Thursday night, in Jerusalem. On the other side of the world, away from where I was. They were boys, mere children, studying in the library of the Mercaz Harav yeshiva when hundreds of rounds of ammo were sprayed, killing eight. The oldest was 26, the age of my older brother, the rest were 15 or 16, the age of my younger brother.

[The killer's] family said that although he had been intensely religious, he was not a member of any militant group, and he had planned on marrying this summer. But he had been transfixed by the bloodshed in Gaza, where 126 Palestinians died from Wednesday through Monday, his sister, Iman Abu Dhaim, told The Associated Press.

It is with this that I wonder, I rack my brain and clench my fists wondering -- WHY then? Why must you kill these youths to avenge the completely unrelated deaths of 126 Palestinians? Why, why would you target students!? Studying, over Torah, studying the historic texts of our people, and then there you are spraying bullets, murdering them. Murdering the learning. It boggles my mind, it shatters my spirit, it makes me scared. It reminds me that as a Jew, I am not safe, for there are those who wish to remove my mark from the map. It's the response to history, and it's the response to extremism. I'm still reading Constantine's Sword, watching as the Catholic Church permitted the destruction of Jews throughout the ages, and here in the present there are Islamic extremists who condone the destruction of the Jews. Will there be rest?

Sigh. I'm supposed to go Israel this summer. And still, I will go.

It devastates me to see this, and to not have seen it before Shabbat, and now I feel guilty that I did not know. That I could not reflect, think on, pray for the families of this situation. But I turned off and shut down on Shabbat and it was amazing. It was inspiring and reflecting and it makes you conscious of those other aspects of Shabbat that should be kept.

I did not use my phone, my computer, my iPod, and I did not write. I did not kindle a flame (despite wanting to light candles to create an aroma in the apartment). I read quite a bit, took a nap, went to a movie, and enjoyed silence and stillness. I turned on my television for 15 minutes, because briefly I was feeling a little pent up in the apartment. I realized how wasteful and pointless it was, so I shut it off. I became more conscious of aspects of Shabbat, like carrying money, carrying at all, turning the lights on and off, cooking. My mind was more at ease. And I have to say taking the day to turn off was outstanding, and I intend on continuing the trend (sans when my little brother is here, since, well, that's a complicated situation). I think that it will ease my mind, and it will allow me to calm myself a bit. I look forward to this ... and taking on more mitzvot in the process.

And now, the mourner's prayer, the Kaddish.

A potpourri.

Just a few things.

+ I forgot to mention Rashi died. That is, my fish Rashi. He didn't even live a month. It would appear that my amazing pet rearing skills have passed. He left the earth as we know it on Tuesday night. I think I am now over the idea of the importance of having something "living" in my apartment. I kills plants, and evidently, fish, too.

+ This past week (as in, yesterday's Shabbat) was probably one of the most important, being as it carried with it the Torah portion "Yitro." It was Jethro, Moses's father-in-law, telling him he can't do it all alone, as well as the giving of the decalogue (the commandments) and the gathering of Israel at Sinai. It was a defining moment in our peoplehood and would set the stage for Judaism, Christianity and Islam, among others. The revelation at Sinai is a most beautiful piece to read in the Torah, and I wrote extensively on my study last year. Perhaps the most interesting thing about my study this year -- beyond that my stress and exhaustion kept me from truly pouring myself into it -- was a simple piece of the text that sticks with me and seems to rub me in a peculiar way.

When Jethro is speaking to Moses about the Israelites escaping Egypt, he says that it is a great thing that the Israelites escaped from under the "hand" of the Egyptians. I was struck by the usage here. The thing is, the typical phrasing is the hand of G-d and in the case of tyrants, the "fist" of tyrants. Even in the translation this distinction is typically made. I checked the Hebrew and lo and behold, there was "yad," a yod and a dalet, the Hebrew word for hand. I find it peculiar that such a gentle word was used for what the Egyptians had the Israelites under. It struck me as uncomfortable and out of place. So here I sit with my Hebrew dictionary and there is an entry for "fist." Of course, I'm pretty poor with my Hebrew without the vowels, but my best guess is that it's something like "agrop" or "agroph." Though it could also start with an "i" though that's pretty unlikely.

So I go to the internet to a Hebrew-English dictionary and it gives me a variety of answers for "fist" in the Babylon English-Hebrew, including: (ש"ע) אגרוף; יד (סלנג); כתב-יד (סלנג). I'm perplexed at the variety of things in parenthesis, but I'm guessing that the third choice (the one furthest to the left, that is) which appears to be "catav yad" is probably the most accurate, as it symbolizes an action, which, the fist is. You make a fist, it isn't simply a fist. A hand, however, is simply a hand. Now, כתב typically has something (in its various forms) to do with writing or composing, suggesting an "active hand. But then my dictionary leads to perhaps the point. "Katut" or "Kathut" means pounded, crushed. This is more what we would expect from the Egyptians, nu?

But back to the point. It seems peculiar that simply "yad" would be preferred to any other of a variety of terms. Although, perhaps such an expression was not viable in Biblical Hebrew? I haven't looked at what Rashi says (if anything) or searched the Torah for instances of "fist." And this will all likely come tomorrow or this week when I can spend some more time with it. I just think it's fascinating how such a small morsel of such a large, important parshah can stick with me.

+ Finally, today, January 27 is a pretty important day. Most don't know about it or think about it, probably because most know that there is a specific day for honoring the Holocaust, and it most assuredly is not January 27. Yom Hashoah as we know it is in April. This was declared by the Knesset in Israel. However, as I learned from my handy dandy A Little Joy, A Little Oy calendar, today, January 27, is the day declared by the United Nations as Holocaust Remembrance Day. From the isREALLI.org blog (the blog of the Israeli Consulate in New York City, from last year at this time):

Rejecting any denial of the Holocaust as a historical event, either in full or in part, the General Assembly adopted by consensus a resolution (A/RES/60/7) condemning “without reserve” all manifestations of religious intolerance, incitement, harassment or violence against persons or communities based on ethnic origin or religious belief, whenever they occur…

It decided that the United Nations would designate 27 January -– the anniversary of the liberation of the Auschwitz death camp — as an annual International Day of Commemoration to honour the victims of the Holocaust, and urged Member States to develop educational programmes to instil the memory of the tragedy in future generations to prevent genocide from occurring again, and requested the United Nations Secretary-General to establish an outreach programme on the “Holocaust and the United Nations”, as well as measures to mobilize civil society for Holocaust remembrance and education, in order to help prevent future acts of genocide.

The Holocaust was a turning point in history, which prompted the world to say “never again”. The significance of resolution A/RES/60/7 is that it calls for a remembrance of past crimes with an eye towards preventing them in the future.

Be well, friends. And thank you for the thoughts and comments.

Death to a legend! Oy!

He won my heart with "God Bless You, Dr. Kavorkian." Or was it "Slaughterhouse Five"? Although it could easily have been "Breakfast of Champions" -- my favorite Vonnegut book. I've read so many of his books, and he defeats J.D. Salinger on my list of favorite authors (cliched? maybe). But Vonnegut is the man who made me love reading. I realized then that literature didn't have to be stiff and archaic. It could be meddlesome and hilarious.

So, cheers to you Mr. Vonnegut. I hope negotiations are going well with your entrance into the netherlands. Your memory is emblazoned on my mind -- permanently. Thanks, you old man.

It'll stop, soon.

My maternal grandfather, John Baskette, a Pearl Harbor survivor, is in the hospital. He can't breathe on his own and evidently has acid in his blood. He had signs of pneumonia and things are not looking particularly good. He lives in Branson, Mo., and is 83 years old, nearly 84. His birthday is April 6. I forgot how old he was until I tracked down his bio he wrote for the Pearl Harbor association. My grandfather was something of a hero, in my mind at least.

Growing up, when we lived in Joplin, Mo., in the late 80s and early 90s, we visited Branson to go to Silver Dollar City and see my grandparents several times a year. I participated in my aunt Renee's wedding in the late 80s, but after that, I didn't see any of my aunts or uncles up until now. There were never birthday cards or greetings from Barry or Doug, let alone Renee or the other two aunts whose names escape me right now. They weren't family. My grandparents were something strange to me, and after I turned 10 or so, they sort of lost interest in us, my family. In recent years, I would send holiday cards and once I sent a father's day card to Grandpa Baskette, which recieved a warm, lengthy letter back from him. Typed on an old-school typewriter on his letterhead. Filling me in on his and grandma's ailments. He always signed, though, in his scribbly, rigid handwriting, "Grandpa Baskette."

My connection to Grandpa Baskette is much larger than that to Grandma Baskette, who seemed to make my mom's life a living hell when she was growing up. Grandpa let me interview him when I was in the 6th grade for a project on veterans for a USO-themed gigantic project for my differentiated program. I dressed in my dad's old navy getup and portrayed my grandfather, telling his story of running across the green as the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. I had photographs of his dozens of honors, including the Purple Heart. His story inspired me, making me fascinated with history.

I wish I knew them better. I wish they'd cared a little more about us. I resent them for the supposed things they put mom through -- it's a domino effect, you know.

But I know that with grandpa passes, I'll lose a little something. And for the first time, I will say kaddish for someone close to me. It won't be the last, of course. There are people who flip and flop about saying kaddish for a nonJewish relative, but in my world, I can't NOT say kaddish. It's strength and hope in a prayer.

All I ask from the Web community, of course, is to keep my family in your prayers. This situation is part of something much, much bigger going on in the sphere of Chaviva. Bigger than any of you likely will know. We'll say it's like standing comfortably inside an eggshell, while the eggshell cracks and breaks around you. You see it, but you can't do anything about it. It's merely cracking and crumbling, and you know that you've done all you can. You have to just stop, watch, and hope it crumbles gracefully to the ground.

Luckily, I'm no longer standing alone.