In Judaism, turning thirteen is a big deal. For generations, boys were called to read from the Torah in a ceremony called a bar mitzvah, which marked their entry as an adult into the Jewish community. This was a boys-only club until March 18, 1922, when American rabbi Mordecai Kaplan held the first bat mitzvah in the United States for his daughter Judith. Still, it was rare for a girl to have one. My mother didn’t. Even though both of my brothers celebrated this rite of passage, I did not.

My daughters and, more recently two of my granddaughters, celebrated b’not mitzvah (plural). I am sharing stories from three generations. My father’s written recollection of his bar mitzvah in 1934, and my reflections written when my younger daughter and granddaughters celebrated theirs.

THE WAY IT WAS
By my father, Sidney Levine, in honor of his first grandchild’s Bar Mitzvah, which was also the 50th anniversary of his own Bar Mitzvah

June, 1934… Year two of the New Deal. June 30th, the red-letter date. The week begins with the onset of an early summer heat wave. Temperatures hover near the triple digit mark. Blazing sun. Stifling humidity. Preparations are under way. Mother, tantes [aunts], neighbors, friends – all are engaged in an orgy of cooking and baking. Chickens are plucked and broiled. Fricasses, chopped liver, tsimmes, kishkas, kasha, lokshen, mandlen, challes, tayglech, mandel brot, and strudels — all are in various stages of completion. Large pots boiling on stoves, ovens are all ablaze. Every icebox and precious refrigerator in the neighborhood is stuffed with the overflow of this productivity.

Meanwhile, the focus of this sweaty, frenzied activity is absorbed in the daily heroics of the new “Samson,” Hammering Hank Greenberg, who has come as a messiah to lead the beloved Detroit Tigers out of the American League wilderness to their first pennant in a quarter century.

Saturday morning dawns with sun and heat unabated. The “man to be” is adorned in the new suit – 100% wool worsted, tan color, belted back jacket and knickers. The neighborhood shul is filled to capacity with 125 perspiring souls — women in the balcony, a collection of bearded elders wrapped in ankle length taleism surrounding the bimah. At the center stands Rabbi Moldowsky, awesome with a red beard and shining penetrating eyes in a stern visage — father of ten or twelve, advisor, interpreter, philosopher, and shochet [kosher slaughter].

Now, in a quick singsong, the blessings are chanted, followed by the Haftorah and the closing blessings. Then comes a five-minute break for “the speech” — obligatory thanks to mother and father and to the United Hebrew Schools for inspirational tutelage, promises to work diligently for the betterment of mankind and Judaism, and to remain steadfast in the study of Torah. Finally, the descent from before the Ark to a shower of candies from the balcony, and it’s over.

Sundown, and all the food comes forth from the secret hiding places and is lugged up to the Parkside Social Hall, a sparse room over the main business street store fronts. Tables and chairs have been set up. A small area has been cleared for the band and dance floor. The music is Morris Witcoff, violin virtuoso, and his Troubadors, specializing in freilichs, waltzes, Russian shers, polkas, and an occasional American fox trot. The endless dinner is punctuated by well wishes and greetings in appropriate order from relatives, friends, and officers and directors of the Landsmanschaft Society. A procession of gifts – the inevitable pen and pencil set, a siddur, a chumash, a tie clasp, envelopes with $2.00 and $3.OO in cash, a rare $5.00 bill, and a Mickey Mouse watch.

The “Bar Mitzvah” and a handful of boyfriends cavort in a corner. Batting averages and individual athletic heroics are loudly discussed. Trading card deals are arranged. Teachers and sundry elders are mocked and mimicked. Across the room are the girls, the older sister and a few daughters of relatives and friends. A constant chatter and giggle prevail. Never the twain shall meet. By 10:00, the “man of the day” and the older sister are dispatched to the babysitter who has been minding the younger brother and sister at the house about a block away. Their big day is ended. The adult revelers go on and on.

The only memento of all of this — the [Mickey Mouse] watch [featured image] — is now in Jonathan’s [my son, his grandson] proud possession.

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ON THE OCCASION OF OUR YOUNGEST CHILD’S BAT MITZVAH

January 27, 1990:  I wrote this for our youngest child’s Bat Mitzvah, ironically entitled “Rites of Passage.” At this point, our oldest was a freshman in college, and our middle child was “Sweet Sixteen.” I was feeling like this event marked a huge passage for our family as well as for our daughter:

Bat Mitzvah – rite of passage, coming of age
Yours… ours
How did this happen so quickly?

After the trips to the zoo, spilled milk, bedtime story marathons, birthday parties, skinned knee hugs… Are you really this grown up?

We remember countless rides to Detroit (Are we almost there?). Countless birthday parties and clan gatherings. Cousins by the dozens.

We remember Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Donald… water slides, golf cart rides, child’s delight, Disney at night. The pool and the beach, the sing-a-longs, the friendly throngs of Sleepy Hollow.

We remember Israel – heat and crowds, relatives and ruins, splendor and sights… and almost losing you while buying a tallit for your older brother in the Old City.

We remember our humble tent amidst the waterfalls and glories of Yosemite… the breath-taking coast of California – clamoring down trails, running along beaches, awed by giant Redwood and Sequoia.

We remember paint box colored arches, magnificent canyons, a horseback ride through the majesty of Zion – and the decadence of a night at the Biltmore.

We remember lines, climbing steps, lines, monuments by night, lines, cherry blossoms, and lines in our nation’s capital.

We remember spelunking through New England’s caves, watching whales spout on the Cape, “circling the square” to leave Harvard Yard.

Sharing special times, sometimes with family and friends, always with each other – we have all come of age… together.

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A Very Special B’not Mitzvah – February 23, 2019

I have been writing about how many religious communities have no place for people with disabilities since I started blogging in 2013. Having grandkids with special needs can do that to a grandmother. I have heard explanations from “we don’t do that” to “we have to create something separate to accomplish that.” But all along, the answer was very easy. Just open the door.

That happened for my family at the Jewish Reconstructionist Congregation (JRC) in Evanston, Illinois. When my twelve-year-old granddaughter started preparing for her Bat Mitzvah, her fifteen-year-old sister, who has a significant language disability and is anxious in front of crowds, requested to have one as well. She claimed she wanted to be on the stage and her little sister generously agreed to share her big day.

My daughter cautiously broached the topic with Rabbi Rachel Weiss. In the past, at other congregations, including her older child was a big deal. At JRC, it was simple. We brought her to services meant for everyone, regardless of differences. All were truly welcome. If she focused on her phone or sat when she was supposed to stand or drank water during the Yom Kippur fast, no one cared. Perhaps it was the feeling of belonging plus her love for all of the music in the service that made her comfortable. She started following the service in the prayer book, and then came her big ask. She wanted to have a Bat Mitzvah like her little sister.

Turns out, if one is flexible and accommodating, technically all she had to do was to be called to the bimah to recite the blessings before and after the Torah reading. She practiced those blessings but we had no idea if she would recite them in front of a congregation. To our amazement, she did, but she did much more. Rabbi Weiss and Cantor Howard Friedland respectfully asked her if she wanted to carry a Torah. She did. She danced with joy as she proudly carried hers next to her sister. Each time there was an opportunity to participate, they asked if she wanted to try it. Would she let her grandfather wrap her in a tallit (prayer shawl)? She did. Did she want to come up so her parents could tell her how proud they were of her. She did. Would she like to join her little sister on the bimah to receive the priestly benediction? Yes, please.

After so many years of trying to find ways to include my granddaughter in religious life, in the end the answer was simple. Just open the door, invite her in, and ask how can we help you be part of our caring community.

I invite you to read my book Terribly Strange and Wonderfully Real and join my Facebook community.

As most language was eluding her, it was wonderful that she was able to profit from the memorization exercises of her childhood.
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Mother died three days before her 97th birthday. I described my relationship with her, and her last six days of life in much detail in What I Didn’t Tell You Then.

I knew the people at the funeral home in Detroit quite well. The owner, Herb Kaufman, lived around the corner from us in Huntington Woods. His daughter Ilene was a classmate of mine throughout public school and Temple. She married her high school sweetheart, Dave, who now ran the business. It was he I called as Mother lay dying, to make the final arrangements. He was kind and helpful. Subsequently, I dealt with one of his sons. They kept it all in the family.

Mom died early on the morning on August 14, 2010. Rick and I chose not to see her remains until we reassembled a few days later in Detroit. Both our families stayed in a hotel. Vicki was still on a summer internship in Silicon Valley and could not be called home, but David flew in from grad school in New York City. Rick and Annie drove in from Cincinnati and their sons came in from wherever they were at the time. We drew comfort from being altogether.

Mother had left Detroit to be close to me more than 15 years earlier and had out-lived her few remaining friends. We planned a small grave-side service, with cousins (many on our father’s side of the family, who came to support us). Two of Mom’s nieces and their husbands came in from Toledo. One high school friend of Rick’s came.

Legally, Rick had to identify the body, as we had not seen her after she passed, so we went together to Kaufman’s Funeral Chapel before meeting everyone at the cemetery and were led to a small side chapel where she was laid out in an open coffin, wearing the dress she’d worn years earlier to Rick’s wedding. She thought it was the prettiest dress she’d ever owned and was adamant about being buried in it.

I marveled at how well she looked, so different than the wraith I left behind a few days earlier. Now her hair was done nicely, the dress, indeed beautiful. “Mom, you’d be SO happy with the way you look!” This was her 97th birthday. I thought she looked great, perhaps a weird thing to say about one’s recently deceased mother, but it was true. She had never liked her looks.

Dave from Kaufman’s, no longer the youngster/boyfriend I remembered, came in to offer condolences. Next entered a bent-over, old man using a walker. I assumed he was at the wrong chapel, as there was a huge funeral going on in the large chapel next door. I squinted for a moment and realized it was Herbie Kaufman, come to pay his respects. I flew into his arms! Though classmates with Ilene, I was friendlier with his oldest child, Bud. We were in the school plays together and he was best friends with John, who dated and married my close friend Patti. Rick and I were so touched that he came here for us. I had brought a photo from John and Patti’s wedding which included Dave, Ilene, Bud and his date and their younger sister Patty, who was now deceased. Dave loved it, asked if he could take it to their office to make a copy (of course). Rick and Herb settled in for a chat about Reform Jewish congregations. I clucked like a mother hen. Below is the wedding photo with the Kaufman children included. Ilene is behind the groom’s shoulder. Dave, to the right with a great head of dark hair. This is June, 1973. Bud was John’s best man with the white carnation. Yes, I’m on the left in the pink. One of John’s Harvard suite mates has his arm around me. He came out the following year.

It was time to be driven to the cemetery behind the hearse. We said goodbye to Herb and drove to Temple Beth El Cemetery in Livonia, where so many of our relatives are buried. Since Rick was a principal mourner, he did not lead the service. His wife Annie performed that function for us. Our children read Psalms. Rick gave the first eulogy. He spoke about the disappointment of women of Mother’s generation; these bright, competent women, who could have done so much with their lives, but instead did club work. Not that the work wasn’t important, it just wasn’t as fulfilling as it might have been. Our mother was always in the shadow of her older sister (with whom she would be buried). Ann was the president of many organizations. Mother was insecure about herself in so many ways. It ultimately undid her.

I had thought for years about what I might say at this event. Despite all the tensions between us, I wanted to keep my remarks positive. I told the Anna Pavlova story, which was one of her favorites and demonstrated her love of dance and how she taught me to love the arts and creativity. I spoke extemporaneously and kept no notes, so cannot remember exactly all that I said. But I know I ended by saying that you know you had a good party when the three Stein sisters got up and danced the Charleston! I kept my remarks light and positive, filled with gratitude for the gifts of the arts she bequeathed me.

We said Kaddish, shoveled dirt on the open grave, retrieved our cars and went to my cousin Lois’s for shiva. Lois has always been a source of strength and comfort for me. The oldest of our maternal first cousins, she and I ponder large questions together. She and cousin Harriet Prentis had laid out a feast for all of us. Lois’ children were there. They had all been close and kind to Mother and it was good to see them. I remain in touch with them via Facebook. David is just my age and we are true friends.

Mother’s engagement diamond had always been special for her and me. After her divorce, she reset it in a cocktail setting which I never much liked, but she wore it proudly. The diamond came from her father’s jewelry store and I always loved it; an emerald-cut one carat beauty. As her mind disappeared, I had to take it from her to protect it. I put it in the safe in my house. From time to time, she would ask for it and I reassured her that I had it and was safe.

Two months before her death, our Vineyard house was burglarized. The thief stole various medications and four pieces of my jewelry, including my own engagement ring (our wonderful detectives did find everything except the engagement ring, which the thief sold to buy drugs). I bought a new ring with insurance money weeks before her death and at that time, finally had her stone re-set into a necklace, which I had always planned to do, but not until she was gone. I wore it to her funeral against my black dress. It seemed a fitting tribute.

During the shiva, we got calls from out-of-town cousins, wishing us well. We spent some time together, thanked Lois for always being gracious and present, then departed for our various homes. We had laid Mother to rest.

Part of the Jewish tradition is to lay the headstone sometime within the first year after the person passes. It is called an “unveiling” (of the headstone). Rick and I chose to come back to Detroit the following May for Mother’s unveiling. This I did as a day-trip. Rick presided over the ceremony. None of our children were there. The Featured photo shows the new grave marker, just uncovered.

After the unveiling, we took our assembled cousins out to lunch at a nearby restaurant, suggested by a local cousin. I reminded my brother that Mother had left us a nice inheritance and we treated our cousins (even those who weren’t at the cemetery) to lunch. We were delighted to have a chance to visit with everyone. Then, once more, it was time for me to catch a flight back to Boston, while Rick and Annie  drove back to Cincinnati. We did all we could to honor and remember Mother. Now we connected with our living relatives.

 

 

What does plowing a field have to do with knitting, one may ask. The answer: As knitters know, when knitting an intarsia pattern one reads the pattern from right to left, and in the following row from left to right. This type of writing/notation is known as boustrophedon.

The word originates from the Greek: as the ox plows, down one row in a field and up the next. If you have ever mowed a lawn, unless you went freestyle, you would follow a boustrophedonic method of getting it done. I have both mowed lawns and knitted pictures or patterns in this way. Although we normally read from left to right, knitters don’t think twice about “reading” a pattern the other way as well.

Some of the earliest knitted patterned objects date back to ancient Egypt. Not incidentally, hieroglyphs can be read in both directions. This is an example of a Coptic sock. It’s amazing what people can create with a pair of sticks and some cotton  yarn.

So, is knitting a brain puzzle? I say it is. A puzzle, a math problem, and a test of your patience. It has the effect of engaging both brain and hands and in the end someone gets a pair of socks or a sweater or a nice scarf. With a piece of graph paper and some creative thought, you can make up a pattern to knit, as I did here.

Not to brag, but I did create the universe for this ungrateful child who only wore the sweater once because he thought it was “itchy.” I am happy to report that one of my grandsons is delighted to be wearing it now. Since you start knitting from the bottom and work your way up, I began Earth at Tiera del Fuego and went north from there. This pattern is not to scale. Obviously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

If I’m not knitting, I like to do word puzzles. My daily pandemic SIP routine now includes the daily Jumble and a crossword puzzle (the easy kind). I’m also currently playing online Letterpress with my son. It’s a make-words-from-letters game, more cutthroat than Scrabble. I taught my kids how to play Scrabble and Boggle, but now I’m too much of a pushover for them to play with me. Plus, they have young kids and no time for board games at a distance. My older son is a puzzle fanatic and turned me on to a BBC Two quiz show called “Only Connect.” It will blow your mind.

But back to knitting. For me, it’s a craft and a challenge: I look at it both ways.

One more example:

This was a difficult pattern to keep track of. Thank goodness it was only a small baby blanket. It reminded me of seashells and waves and once I got the hang of the complicated pattern, I loved the way it turned out. But paying attention to the stitch count was essential with this one.

One for the little granddaughter because I loved the hearts and flowers. They don’t always come out perfect, but I have learned that I’m only a perfectionist up to a point.

 

 

When the sheltering in place began, I started a blanket for myself–just a small blanket to throw over my legs as I sat on the couch binge-watching whatever. I figured that the blanket, knitted in a circle with a squared-off border, was a big enough project to last me through what I thought would be a rather short period of being confined to the house. I greatly underestimated how long SIP would last. I could’ve made a much bigger blanket had I known I’d still be hanging around here for six months and counting. (Another neat trick of knitting: by dividing the stitches between three or four needles, forming a square or a triangle, one can actually knit a circle, which is how I made my blanket.)

Confusing? Maybe just a little.

So for me, knitting is a puzzle, a math problem, a challenge, and the occasional geometric anomaly. Which is what makes it a good brain exercise.