Author Archives: Marilyn Shapiro

About Marilyn Shapiro

After thirty five years in education, I have retired and am free to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a freelance writer. Inspired by my mother, who was the family historian, I am writing down my family stories as well as publishing stories my mother wrote down throughout her life. Please feel free to comment and share.

Melanie Gall: The Canadian songbird

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“Sweet and nostalgic, [Melanie Gall] is like a Disney princess from the Lower East Side” Uptown Magazine (2012)

My mother loved Judy Garland and Deena Durbin. She would have loved Melanie Gall.

My husband Larry and I first became acquainted with Melanie, a Canadian chanteuse, in 2019, through our friends Mike and Teri Chaves. The three had met in a Cancun resort, where Melanie was on vacation the week before her performance at the Orlando International Fringe Festival. The Chaves, with whom we had already made plans to go to the event, insisted that we join the three of them for dinner.

Over white wine and baked trout. I learned more about Melanie and about what we had in common. We both grew up Jewish in a small town. We both loved the Great American Songbook. We both loved Judy Garland, and in her Orlando Fringe show, Melanie was going to be performing several of Garland’s songs, including “Over the Rainbow” (my favorite song of all times). Melanie was the same age as my son, and she reminded me of Adam in her adventurous and independent spirit.

That evening, we joined our friends to see her one-woman show, Ingenue: Deanna Durbin andJudy Garland. One of 150 performances scheduled across Loch Haven Park and Lowndes Shakespeare Center. Melanie’s one-hour tour-de-force told the story of the friendship and the Hollywood-created rivalry between Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin, two 1940s superstars.

We enjoyed her performance so much that we went back the next night to watch it again. Each time I heard Melanie sing Durbin and Garland songs, I kept thinking how my mother—whose iPod shuffle contained songs by only two artists, Judy Garland and Frank Sinatra—would have loved to be sitting in the audience.

Melanie’s show not only played to sell-out performances, but won top prize for Best Solo Show, Musical. When we hugged goodbye, I promised to write a story about her before she returned in 2020 for next year’s Fringe. Of course, that didn’t happen. Nor did it happen in 2021. But two weeks ago, Mike emailed me: “Guess who is coming to Orlando! Melanie Gall!” This May, Melanie will be back in a new production at Orlando International Fringe Festival, A Toast to Prohibition, her fourth time at the festival.

The four of us quickly bought tickets for both her shows. Soon after, I sent Melanie an email sharing news of our purchase and asking if she was still interested in the article I had promised before COVID. Within an hour, she wrote back, “I’m so excited to see you at my show, and of course I’d love an article!”

After some background research, I learned that Fringe Festivals are arts festivals featuring alternative or experimental performances and exhibitions. The concept of Fringe Festivals began in Edinburgh, Scotland, when eight theatre companies turned up uninvited to the inaugural Edinburgh International Festival in 1947. With the International Festival using the city’s major venues, these companies took over smaller, alternative venues for their productions. The initial Fringe Festival in Scotland established the two elements of the event: the lack of official invitations to perform and the use of unconventional venues.

There are now over 300 festivals held across Europe, Asia, Australia, New Zealand, and North America. Edinburgh remains the largest in the world with over 55,000 performances of 3,548 different shows in 317 venues. The second largest is held in Adelaide, Australia, and features more than 7,000 artists performing in 1,300 events. Edmonton Fringe, the first in North America, was held in 1982.

No matter where they are held, all fringe festivals have some common features. Acts invited to the event are not judged or juried, often chosen by lottery if size constraints are needed. The casts of the shows are small, with one-person shows common. Shows are typically one-hour, single-act productions, and the sets and other technical theater elements are also kept simple. The shortened time frame as well as the lower priced tickets allow audiences to attend multiple shows each day.

The Orlando International Fringe Theatre Festival, the oldest fringe festival in the United States, is a 14-day annual arts festival held during the month of May at various venues including Loch Haven Park, Lownde Shakespeare Center, and Renaissance Theatre. Although a seasoned Fringe performer around the world, Melanie first performed in Orlando in 2011 with her show My Pal Izzy, based on the early life of Irving Berlin (another one of my mother’s favorites).Melanie grew up in St. Alberts, Alberta, the oldest child of Karen and Gerald Gall. Melanie’s grandmothers were born in Canada and the States, but her paternal and material grandfathers were immigrants from Russia and Poland, refugees from anti-Semitism and the rise of Hitler. Her parents were founding members of Temple Beth Ora in Edmonton, where Melanie became a Bat Mitzvot. Ironically, I learned during the pandemic that my cousin, Rabbi David A. Kunin, had served in her synagogue and Karen had participated in some Torah studies with him before Rabbi Kunin relocated to the Syracuse, New York, area, my husband’s family’s home.

Growing up Jewish in St. Albert was, according to Melanie, “Dire.” She recalled that only two Jewish families lived in the city, and several of her teachers were overtly anti-Semitic. “There was no reference to any culture aside from Christian/Catholic culture,” said Melanie, “And my fellow students were taught in their churches on Sundays that Jews had killed their God.”

Melanie found joy and solace in her musical family. Her great-grandfather had been a cantor, and one of her grandfathers was the frontrunner for the Jack Young Orchestra, a big band in the 1940s. Melanie’s mother, Karen, spent years as a cantorial soloist in their synagogue. “Music has always been a part of my life,” Melanie recalled, “and I could sing before I could talk.”Although her brother is not involved in music, her sister Wendy is a bassoonist.

Her small high school did not offer ways to use her musical talents. Melanie took private voice lessons, and after graduating high school, she pursued her passion with her bachelors in music from University of Alberta. Melanie continued her musical education with professional diplomas from the University of Western Ontario, and the Glenn Gould School (formerly the Royal Conservatory of Music) in Toronto. She holds a masters of music degree from Brooklyn College and an advanced Professional Studies Degree in Opera from Manhattan School of Music. She also studied at the Mozarteum in Salzburg, Austria.

An internationally acclaimed vocalist, Melanie has traveled to Africa, South America and the Caribbean for both solo recitals and opera performances. Between 2013 and 2018, she performed in both English and French in several countries that had been under-represented theatrically, including Zimbabwe, Algeria, Morocco, Chad, Sudan, and Zambia. While there, she led outreach programs for children and young artists in local schools and orphanages. In addition, Melanie has worked with First-Nations Communities in Northern Manitoba, fostering a love of music and building performance skills in youth. Melanie has sung at both Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall, and performed her Vera Lynn cabaret in London’s Royal Albert Hall. Her voice and talent has led her to performances at fringe events in Australia and New Zealand.

Melanie has written and internationally toured in several award-winning solo shows. These include The Sparrow and The Mouse; Piaf and Brel: The Impossible Concert; In the Mood for Love, with songs from ‘American Songbook’s women composers; and Opera Mouse, a children’s introduction to opera; In 2014, she starred in Red Hot Mama: A Sophie Tucker Cabaret, an off-Broadway one woman tour-de-force written and produced by Eric DeWaal

During the pandemic, Melanie’s performances were curtailed, but it didn’t stop her creative talents. Melanie’s book: Deanna Durbin, Judy Garland and The Golden Age of Hollywood, the first-ever biography of 1930s superstar Deanna Durbin and her relationship with Judy Garland, was released in July 2022 by Lyons Press. She is now working on her second book, about the history of house sparrows in North America and the people who have adopted these “wild” birds as pets.

Melanie has never specifically built a show based on her Jewish background, but she references Jewish composers and artists in every one of her shows, including Irving Berlin and Sophie Tucker. She also was pleased to make a connection between Durbin and Anne Frank, a fact she includes in her book. “Deanna was Anne’s favorite star,” Melanie said. “Anne pasted her picture on the wall of the family’s hiding place, and it can still be seen today.”

Melanie is a leading expert in historic knitting music from WWI and WWII. Her interest led to her recording several albums on the topic, as well as two shows: More Power to Your Knitting, Nell! and A Stitch in Time. For over twelve years, Melanie and her sister Debbie hosted the popular The Savvy Girls Podcast that offered “a playful and thoughtful look at knitting, travel, and life,” with a regular listenership of several thousand.

Melanie’s goal? “My long-term goal as a recording artist is to make ‘lost’ popular historic music available once more, she said, “And to ensure that the popular music tradition from the early 20th century is not forgotten.

Sadly, I didn’t get to go to see Melanie in 2022, as I came down with COVID earlier that week. Larry, COVID negative, got to go. Larry said the show was terrific. He came home with a small table Melanie had used as a prop, and we use it every night when we eat outside on our lanai. Just a “fringe” benefit of our knowing this lovely and talented woman.

More information on Melanie Gall can be found on her website at http://www.melainegall.com. More information on Orlando International Fringe festival, can be found at orlandofringe.org.

Versions of this story were published The Jewish World and the Heritage Florida Jewish News.

Melanie Gall’s book on two of her favorite Hollywood icons.

Russian-American artist finds comfort, purpose in his paintings

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Israel Tsvaygenbaum views what is happening in Israel since October 7, 2023, as a painful reminder of his own family history. His father was 29 when he fled Poland in 1939 to escape the Nazis. The Nazis murdered his remaining family members in Auschwitz-Birkenau. “I have always reflected in my paintings the theme of the Holocaust and human tragedy, the loss of people close to us,” said the Russian-American artist, whose magic realism artwork is known worldwide.

Israel has worked to find comfort and purpose in his artwork. In our interview, he cited three works that were especially meaningful to him during this time of war. In The Holocaust, two white doves join blood-red angels on a darker red background. The Tree of Weeping depicts draped hooded figures with their arms outstretched in supplication. Prayers at the Tree of Life portrays an Orthodox Jewish man praying to a tree made of bright branches. “At some point in our lives, our prayers turn to a Tree of Life where each branch represents the prayers of a generation,” Israel said. “We all have our Tree of Life that hears our prayers.”

Immediately following the October 7, 2023, Hamas massacre, Israel began work on his latest piece. The Broken Jar features a fractured vase holding red roses on a background of yellow sunflowers. “Their yellow color represents the anxiety that the Israeli people are now experiencing while waiting for their kidnapping loved ones,” he said. “The hearts of the Israelis are now broken like the jar in my painting, but their souls, like those roses, have preserved their integrity, unity, and harmony.”

Israel was born in 1961 in Derbent, Dagestan, Russia, the youngest child of a Polish Holocaust survivor and a “Mountain Jew” a mother who was a descendent of Persian Jews from Iran. As a result, the Tsvaygenbaum children were raised in a uniquely Jewish household, a mixture of Ashkenazi (Eastern and Central European) and Sephardic (Spanish) traditions and customs. Although often struggling financially, the family kept a kosher home and observed Shabbat and all religious holidays. His father, respected for his erudition and prior religious education, served as a “spiritual bridge” to fellow survivors who had settled in Derbent.

Adding to young Israel‘s cultural experiences were his interactions with both Christian and Muslim neighbors. “The memory of these people prompted me to create some of my paintings,” he said. “They were sources of my inspiration.”

Israel chronicles these events in his 2023 memoir, My Secret Memory: The Memoir of the Artist, describing how the ideas for his paintings came to him. The book outlines key events in his childhood that shaped his paintings later in life, including frank and often graphic descriptions of violence and sexual encounters. These dramatic events and the tragedies of his own family members, especially the loneliness and sadness experienced by his father because of the Holocaust, are major themes of his writing. “I pour my soul into my painting,” Israel said in his YouTube video. Most importantly, his art represents universal themes of kindness, peace, and our shared humanity.

Israel’s artistic interests and talents began at an early age. By eight years old, he was asking his parents to purchase painting supplies so he could capture important moments on canvas. He obtained both undergraduate and graduate fine art degrees from Russian art institutions. From 1983 to 1985, he pursued an acting career, which inspired him to paint pictures of fellow thespians. In 1986, Israel organized an artist’s group called Coloring, an association of artists based in Derbent. Museums and private collections throughout Russia showcased Israel’s art.

In 1994, Israel held two successful solo shows in Moscow. This was to be his last in his home country. The escalating conflict between Russia and Chechnya, which bordered Dagestan, made it too dangerous for Israel and his family to remain in the war-torn area. In 1994, he, his wife Katerina, their three daughters ranging in age from 14 months to nine years; his mother, and his maternal grandmother immigrated to New York State’s Capital District to be close to his brother, a Saratoga County resident. The family quickly settled in Albany, New York, as he felt the bigger city would provide more opportunities to build a new life for him and his family.

“Time has shown that I was right,” he remarked. Israel has enjoyed a successful career in the state’s capital. Russia and the United States have exhibited his extensive collection of paintings, which are also part of private collections in nine countries, including Austria, Bulgaria, France, Israel, the Netherlands, Russia, the United Kingdom, and the US. Israel’s two ink on paper graphical works—The Sarcasm of Fate and The Grief of People—are in the Museum of Imitative Arts, Derbent, Dagestan, Russia.

In 2001, Israel began a collaboration with Judy Trupin, a choreographer and poet who created dance compositions based on nine of Israel’s paintings. Worlds in Our Eyes, created to elicit memories of Jewish life in Eastern Europe and Russia while touching on universal themes, was performed in several cities in New York State. Israel dedicated the performance to the people of his home city, Derbent.

Israel also has found success and pride in his family life, especially in seeing that his love for Judaism continues in his children and grandchildren. “I always wanted to pass the baton that I got from my parents,” he said in My Secret Memory. “I am happy to realize I made it.” He and Katerina’s three daughters, all graduates of Albany High School with professional careers, have instilled Jewish values and traditions in their own families. Six out of eight attend Jewish schools.

“Everything in this world is interconnected,” Israel wrote in My Secret Memory. He hopes what he has created from his patience, his passion for the conceived idea, and his dedication to work will make the world a little kinder place. Just like the roses in The Broken Jar, he hopes his life and legacy will reflect integrity, unity, and harmony.

Originally published December 15, 2023.Updated May 26, 2025.

Versions of this story were published The Jewish World and the Heritage Florida Jewish News.

Israel Tsvaygenbaum’s memoir

Tsvaygenbaum, Israel. My Secret Memory: The Memoir of the Artist. (2023).

www.israelartgold.com

www.wikipedia.com

A “Chili” Story for A Chilly January

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In mid-December, Central Florida was experiencing a cold snap, and I decided to make chili. I had the canned tomatoes and chopped green chilis and the soy meat crumbles for the recipe, and I had all the ingredients for cornbread, a must whenever I made it.

Once I checked my pantry, however, I realized I was out for canned beans. No problem! I had been meaning use up the dried red kidney beans tucked away for a while.

What I quickly realized that the “while” was at least 9 years. Yes, as evidenced by its Price Chopper label, I had brought the beans with me when we moved here in 2015. Meanwhile, I had no idea how long ago before our move from Upstate New York to Florida when I had purchased them. I knew that archeologists had found barley and other foodstuffs in storage in Masada, and a woman in Minnesota had grown pole beens from 15,000 year old seeds. What did I have to lose?

So, on that cold Friday, as per instructions, I soaked the beans overnight. The next morning, I boiled the beans and then let them simmer for another hour. As I was going to make the chili on Monday, I put the beans in a large container, covered them with water, and placed them in the refrigerator. The beans weren’t as soft as they should be, but I figured the extra soaking would do its magic.

On Monday morning, I placed the drained beans in my slow cooker with all the other ingredients for the dish. Despite the 36 hour soak, the beans STILL were a little hard, but I reasoned ten hours in the slow cooker would resolve the issue.

That evening, I made the cornbread and assembled the shredded cheese, onions, and sour cream to top the chili. We were ready to eat. I dished out two large bowls for Larry and me.

My teeth bit into a red kidney bean. Al dente is fine for pasta, but for chili? The dish was barely edible. We picked around them and filled up on cornbread and the other chili ingredients. The glass of red wine also helped.

As we began to clean up, I realized we had made only made a small dent into the chili. “Maybe if we freeze the leftovers, they will soften a bit,” I told Larry, portioning out another meal into a frozen container. I still had another meal in the pot.

Time to consult Chef Google! The first thing I learned was those ancient beans and barley may have been found, but they had not been cooked. And nine-plus-year-old-beans were too old. Farther down the website, Chef Google suggested adding baking soda to beans to soften them.

Okay! I pulled out my Arm and Hammer and spooned out a heaping teaspoon into the still warm chili. Immediately, the mixture began to erupt like a volcano. Fearing they would explode out of the crock pot, I screamed to Larry to empty the sink so I could dump the mess down the garbage disposal. Fortunately, they stopped their explosion and even didn’t result in a clog.

I guess I should have read the instructions better. The baking soda should have been added to the “virgin” beans when I first boiled them. Adding the sodium bicarbonate to the chili mixture, which contained acidic tomatoes, replicated what happens when one combines baking soda and vinegar. Remember your childhood/children’s science experience? Yep! That kind of explosion.

Over the next few days, I shared my experience with several friends. Betty, a retired home economics teacher, suggested newer beans. Several others suggested using canned beans. Marcella, who grew up in Costa Rica and was an expert on rice and beans, suggested I trade in my slow cooker for a new appliance.

“I make beans in my Instant Pot© all the time,” Marcella told me. “They cook in 20 minutes.”

Five days later, Amazon had a 9-in-1 Instant Pot© on sale for 40% off. What perfect timing! I quickly ordered it and, a day later, took it out of the box.

I was a little intimidated with the instruction manual, which began with 27 IMPORTANT SAFEGUARDS!!! along with two more pages of warnings that rivaled those found at nuclear power plant. A highlighted block stating “Failure to adhere to safety instructions may result in serious personal injury or property damage” was repeated five times.

After doing a test run, I spent the next few days trying out my new toy. Hard boiled eggs? Perfect! Rice? Perfect! A whole roasting chicken in 28 minutes? Perfect! Butternut squash? Perfect! The only fail was my attempt at mashed potatoes. The finished spuds were brownish grey and turned into a sticky mess when mashed. Those went in the freezer (Maybe they could serve as a base for my potato latkes later that month?) next to the container labeled “11/20/2023 Chili with Bad Beans.”

And the chili? Larry purchased a fresh, one pound package of red kidney beans on one of his recent shopping trips. They are still sitting in the pantry waiting for another cold snap.

As I write this, we are approaching the secular New Year’s Day, January 1, 2024. According to Southern tradition, eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day will bring a year’s worth of good luck and/or monetary gain. Google came up with over 5 million hits for “Black Eyed Peas Chili. [Black-eyed peas are also traditionally served on Rosh Hashanah. Who knew?] Maybe it’s time for another run to the supermarket to start our own tradition, hopefully sans Mount Vesuvius. I’ll keep you posted.

Versions of this story were published in The Jewish World and the Heritage Florida Jewish News.

More beans than I ever imagined at the Ferry Building Farmer’s Markey, January 6, 2024

http://www.cityofzion.com/farmersmarket_files/vegucation/

071714_dontknowbeans.pdf

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masada

Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby by Frances Cohen

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The article below was written by my mother, Frances Cohen. It is part of Fradel’s Story, a collection of stories I edited and published in book form in September 2022.

I’m so lucky that my mother had lots of siblings. I was surrounded with lots of loving aunts, uncles, and cousins. Of all the relatives, I was closest to my Aunt Rose, Uncle Ruby, and their older son Elliot.

My first memories of my Aunt Rose were when I was very young as she spent a great deal of time with me. She made clothes for me and even sewed some of the clothes for my trousseau. After Bill and I were married, Aunt Rose taught me how to cook. As the mother of two sons, she treated me as the daughter she never had.

Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby had a wonderful marriage that lasted almost a half a century. They met under very romantic circumstances. Rose worked in New York City in a factory. One rainy day, she was walking home from work and went into a restaurant on Delancey Street to get out of the downpour. As fate may have it, Uncle Ruby was her waiter. Visiting over coffee, Ruby told the poor girl, who was drenched and disheveled, that he was to be finished very soon for the day. Since he had an umbrella, he would be glad to walk her to her home, which was just across the near-by Williamsburg bridge.

When Aunt Rose arrived home, her mother saw how infatuated Aunt Rose was with this tall, handsome guy. Her mother invited Ruby to stay for dinner. That first dinner led to many other dinners. Vichna, ready to feed everyone, would serve herring, boiled potatoes with sauerkraut, and homemade cake and challah. The romance flourished, and they were married within the year.

Soon after they were married, Uncle Ruby lost his job as a waiter. It was the Great Depression, and restaurants did not need as much help. Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby moved up north to join the family in working at one of the many Pearl’s Department Stores. Ruby eventually opened his own store, Ruby’s, in Brushton, New York

Everyone loved Ruby as he had a wonderful sense of humor. When one of his customers complained that the underpants she bought at his store had holes in them, Ruby said that those were for ventilation. Uncle Ruby hated the Yankees, and he rarely missed their game on the radio just to cheer on the opposite team. At family get-togethers in our home in Keeseville, he would often sneak out to his car, turn on the radio, chew on Chiclets gum, and curse out “those damn Yankees!”

Aunt Rose and Uncle Ruby lived happily in Upstate New York and, although the only Jews in the town, were beloved by everyone. When Aunt Rose died just before their planned fiftieth anniversary party, her funeral was held in Burlington, Vermont. Even though that was 100 miles from their hometown, all the stores in Brushton were closed for the day so that everyone, including the local priest and the minister with his family, could attend the funeral,

Ruby missed his Rose. When he got lonesome, he would put a sign in the window of his store that stated, “Closed for Jewish Holidays” and travel to visit his children and grandchildren.

Ruby lived until he was ninety years old. His funeral, which was held in Burlington, Vermont, was also hugely attended as he was beloved by all the family and the many friends he and Rose had made during their lifetimes. During his eulogy, the rabbi said, “Ruby was not a religious man, but he took more time off for the Jewish holidays than anyone else I ever knew.”

As I mentioned before, Ruby and Rose had two sons, Elliot and Sol. I was especially close to their elder son, Elliot. When things were bad during the Depression, Elliot would spend the summers with my family in New York City. I’m forever grateful to him for introducing me to my husband. Elliot was best man at our wedding, and he drove the car that we took from New York City up north after our honeymoon. It an unforgettable trip. I sat in the front seat with Elliot and Aunt Rose. Bill sat in the back seat with all the wedding presents, including a floor lamp that Bill had to hold for the eight hours. As adults, we remained very close and have spent much time together in Florida and up north. Elliot and his wife Florence were at our fiftieth wedding anniversary. After Florence passed away, Elliot remarried. We have remained very close to Elliot and his second wife Marty. In May 2010, I went down to Staten Island to celebrate his daughter’s sixtieth birthday. I sat with Elliot and visited as if we were still children.

I am very grateful for our relationship with Ruby, Rose, and their family. They very much enriched Bill’s and my life.

Photo of Fran’s aunts and uncles is from Marilyn Cohen Shapiro’s family photo collection. Both Ruby and Rose are standing in the back row. Ruby is second from left; Rose is third from left.

Yes, I am a woman now….

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In today’s crazy world, it is hard to find things for which to be thankful. So I have been trying to find gratitude in the small things: a FaceTime with my children and grandchildren; a good cup of coffee with a piece of warm challah; a special moment with Larry. Recently, I reached back fifty four years to remember an evening that still holds a special place in my heart

In 1969, my brother Jay, who was going for his Masters at Cornell University , invited me out to spend the weekend.Jay arranged for me to stay with Leslie, his girlfriend—and his future wife—on the Ithaca College campus.

As a freshman at Albany State, and I was looking forward to the weekend.What made it especially exciting was that Jay and Leslie had arranged for double dates for both Friday and Saturday.

After bringing me back from the bus stop to his dorm, Jay introduced me to Date One: his roommate Charlie. My first impression of him was not favorable; he looked like a computer nerd and acted like he was roped into an evening for which he had little interest. We all agreed to meet back in Jay’s room after dinner.

I guess Charlie’s first impression of me was not any better. Charlie was a no-show. Leslie and Jay insisted that it was Charlie, but I was hurt and embarrassed. In my mind, I believed he was turned off by my own nerdiness and my before-contact-lens-coke-bottle glasses. “He probably took one look and headed for the hills,” I thought.

Despite the rough start, the three of us enjoyed our evening and the next day. I already loved Leslie and knew she would be in our lives for a long time. Saturday night, I got ready for Date Two with a great deal of trepidation. Would I be stood up again? Thankfully, Jay’s choice for Date Two made up for Charlie tenfold.. Denny was a Robert Redford doppelgänger: tall, blonde, with a British accent to add to the allure.

Our plans for Saturday evening were to see Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, who was my favorite musical group at the time.I was not alone in my passion. They were one of a very select group of touring acts to achieve prominence worldwide.In 1968 , they earned six consecutive gold records and sold more 45 rpm records than any other recording act-including the Beatles. They played a command performance at the White House for Prince Charles and Princess Anne by special invitation of the president.I had worn out my 78 rpm recording of their first eponymous album, swooning to “Woman, Woman;” “This Girl Is A Woman Now,” and “Young Girl.” Seeing them on stage, live, with handsome, sweet, attentive Denny at my side was special.

When Denny said goodnight, he gave me a gentle kiss—a kiss I still remember for its compassion and kindness. Did Jay tell him about the Charlie catastrophe? Or did Denny just sense my vulnerability and lack of confidence? I never saw Denny again, but I will never forget that cold night in Ithaca, New York where a kind stranger made me feel like a beautiful “woman woman,” with no cheating in her heart.

Move ahead to July 2023. An email blast from one of our social clubs announced that Gary Puckett and the Union Gap on was performing in our 55+ community’s ballroom on Sunday, November 6. Despite Larry’s ambivalence (he barely remembered the group), I scooped up two tickets for the 8 pm show. I was psyched, despite the fact that Gary Puckett had just turned 81 two weeks before the concert. Judging from his website, he didn’t look like the handsome young man in the group’s trademark Civil War uniform I knew back then, but—heck— I was also a little older looking myself.

We arrived a half an hour before the show and took our seats.Soon, the seats next to us were taken by my friend Maryellen. She introduced us to her husband Ed. We commented on the large crowd who had come to see the the show. “I am looking forward to this,” Ed said. “The last time I saw Gary Puckett and the Union Gap was at Cornell in 1969.” I gasped and stared at him. “I was at the same concert,” I told him.

At 8 pm, the lights dimmed, the three “Union Gappers” took their places on the stage. As the introductory chords played, Gary Puckett burst onto the stage, singing “Lady Willpower.” I am not sure if he asked the audience to sing along to warm us up or to rest his old vocal cords. but we all fell right into his warmth and charm.

Gary Puckett still had a great voice, albeit a little choppier and less smooth than I remembered.He missed a few high notes and forgot some of the lyrics to a song by the Beach Boys. He turned to the audience, apologized, and asked“So, how is your memory doing?” The audience roared with laughter.

A little over an hour later, the group finished off with “Young Girl,” which is how I felt that evening. There was an opportunity to wait in a long line for a picture, but Larry, who had enjoyed the concert more than I hoped, agreed that I probably would be walking home if I stayed.

So, I am thankful. Thankful for that memorable evening in Ithaca. Thankful that Jay married Leslie and gave me a much beloved sister-of-my-heart.Thankful that Gary Puckett was still alive and kicking and entertaining the crowd. And, most of all, thankful that Larry—not Charlie or even Denny—was sitting next to me. As we walked to our car, my husband of almost 50 years, gave me a not-so-gentle kiss. Yes, that girl is a woman now, and she knows how to live.

The art of listening: Advice for the new year

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When you talk, you are only repeating what you already know. But if you listen, you may learn something new. Dalai Lama XIV

So many stories if we just listen. Sitting next to someone on a plane, we often stick earbuds in our ears to make sure they don’t prattle on about nothing. But sometimes there is much to be learned from hearing—and really listening—to what others have to say.

Some of us are experts at listening. Lou, a friend and former co-worker, not only hears what the person is saying but engages his entire body: he leans forward, plants his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, and looks the speaker in the eye. He nods in agreement. You know he cares about what is being said.

I think of Lou, and I want to emulate him. I am as guilty as anyone, often not really paying attention.

How many times have I sat through a rabbi’s dracha —sermon— and spent too much of my time checking my watch? Even when I have signed up for a lecture sponsored by my community’s book circle, I often find myself thinking about what I need to do later that day rather than focusing on the topic being discussed. I have missed much by not being not more mindful.

Our failure to focus often carries into our daily conversations. We often are not listening to what the person is saying but rather waiting for the moment to express our own “pearls of wisdom.” And, what is worse, what we want to say takes the conversation in a different direction. “That’s great,” we comment. “That reminds me of the time I…..” Note the emphasis is on the word “I.” To quote John Wayne, we are “short on ears and long on mouth.”

We can learn from Lou and other good listeners. Young adult author Sarah Desson describes them well: “They don’t jump in on your sentences, saving you from actually finishing them, or talk over you, allowing what you do manage to get out to be lost or altered in transit. Instead, they wait, so you have to keep going.”

How much richer our lives can be if we allow the speaker to continue talking.

Larry and I recently spent time with a group of friends in in Key West, Florida. Before the trip, Larry had played pickleball with several people in the group, and we both had shared time around the pool and eaten lunch together. But being together for a week gave us more time to learn about each other.

Stories abounded. One woman had contracted polio when she was six, just months before the polio vaccine had come out. A very attractive woman who was visiting from England had become an actress in her sixties and is a regular on a British medical drama. A couple’s son had left his career as a graphic designer behind and became a tattoo artist. Several in the group had served in the military and regaled us with their stories about their experiences in basic training, in fighter planes, in submarines. Again and again, I thought to myself, “Who knew?”

Four days into our trip, Larry said to me, “I love hearing everyone’s stories!” And so did I. So many stories, so much to learn. And as my friend Lynn tells me about her own life, “You can’t make this stuff up!”

In the months ahead, I will be sharing people’s stories with you. My friend’s son, who we have known since childhood, is now a rabbi in New Orleans. A friend in our 55-plus active adult community has turned his lifelong interest in the Titanic into a post-retirement career, as he travels the world giving lectures on the infamous boat and its many passengers. A friend of mine, a thirty-eight year old resident Daughters of Sarah Nursing Home, was paralyzed from the neck down in a freak motorcycle accident when he was sixteen. Each has a story to tell, and we can all learn by listening.

At one of the recent meetings of my writer’s group, one of the members shared a poignant story she had written about woman she had met twenty years earlier on a train stuck outside of Washington, D.C. The writer—who was not wearing earbuds to block out conversations with strangers—learned that the woman was recently married to her childhood sweetheart. A month before the wedding, he was in a terrible accident and had suffered traumatic brain injury. Despite warnings from friends and family to back out of the wedding, the young woman realized her vow to love one another through sickness and health was sealed before the ceremony. By the time she finished reading her story, many of us were in tears. “How did you learn so much about a complete stranger?” we asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “She talked, I listened, and I remembered.” Good advice for all of us.

A version of this article originally appeared in the November 10, 2016, Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

Our Chanukah traditions: No, Santa did not come down our chimney!

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I love Chanukah. I love lighting the candles in our darkened dining room. I love potato pancakes served with applesauce. I love coming up with creative gifts for my children. What I don’t love about Chanukah is trying to make it more than it is.

Chanukah is a minor festival on the Jewish calendar that just happens to usually fall at the same time as the major holiday on the Christian calendar. While I was growing up in Keeseville, my parents never tried to compete with Christmas. However I think my friends felt sorry for me and tried to make it something it wasn’t. Their first response was often, “But you still have a Christmas tree, right?” No, we didn’t’ have a Christmas tree. And no, Santa did not come down our chimney. And no, we weren’t going to have a ham on December 25^th,even if it was on sale at the local A & P for thirty nine cents a pound.

The way we handled it was to share our holiday. We invited our friends to our house to help light our candles and eat potato pancakes, and we gladly went to their house to help decorate their Christmas trees. In that way, we all got to the best of both worlds, two holidays with two very different meanings, each of us maintaining our own identity.

The yearly school challenge was the winter concert. I participated in both Keeseville High School’s band and chorus, and all the music for the December evolved revolved around Christmas carols and songs. Playing Silent Night on my clarinet was fine, but singing the lyrics with the chorus made me very uncomfortable. I would compromise by mouthing certain parts of the song, especially phrases that referred to Jesus as “Christ Our Savior.” As much as I felt overwhelmed by all the Christian songs, I felt even more uncomfortable with the token Chanukah song that was included in the program. The music teachers always chose Dredyl, Dreydl, Dreydl or some other lightweight piece of music that completely under-valued the meaning of our holiday. I think I would have been happier if the Chanukah song was left out entirely. It wasn’t a big holiday. And the fun came in the small things, the small traditions, traditions that Larry and I have carried down to our children.

On top of the list is making potato pancakes. The first year we were married, I decided to make them in my new blender. The chunks of potatoes kept getting stuck on the bottom so I stopped the blender and scraped, then stopped the blender and scraped, then got lazy and just scraped. The moving blade picked up the spatula, flung it to the ceiling along with half the contents of the blender, and then dropped the mess on my head. My expletives brought Larry into the kitchen. He took one look at me, my face covered with potato pancake gook, and walked out. I took out the grater.

Potato latke making became easier when my mother-in-law gave me a food processor for Chanukah the following year. Even so, I’ve had a couple of missteps over the years in my attempts to making them healthy. I’ve made them in the oven to avoid the oil, but main reason they were healthy was that my family refused to eat them, much preferring the oil-laden version that makes the holiday. For them, and even for me, the taste of a crisp, oily potato pancake melting in the mouth is worth the calories, the mess preparing them, and the massive clean-up that usually involves scrubbing down all the cabinets to get the residue oil off them.

My children have fond memories of my sugar cookies that we cut out with the six-sided cookie cutter I had gotten in the Congregation Beth Shalom gift shop back in the early eighties. I always would start out with lots of enthusiasm, happily rolling out the dough and putting them on the aluminum baking sheets. This enthusiasm would last for about two baking sheets worth. Then the dough would start to tear, the thickness of the cookies would be inconsistent, the thin stem of the menorah would break, and the little tops of the dreydls would fall off. The children would settle for the stars and Torahs and scrolls as those shapes held up the best, holiday symbol be darned.

Another tradition has been the annual candle lighting race. Larry brought this tradition in from his home, and my children caught on very quickly. Each of us would choose a candle that we thought will win the “Burning the Longest” award. No jarring or poking was allowed, and the last wick to flicker out is the winner. As the days of the holiday and number of candles progressed, there was more to watch. By the final night, we usually sat around the candles to just savor the flickering lights and to cheer on the last one for that Chanukah season.

Gifts always have been part of our Chanukah tradition. When our children were very young, however, we realized quickly that a gift each night seemed forced, so we mixed it up with a dinner out, a movie, and a volunteer opportunity that worked especially well if Chanukah and Christmas fell around the same time. As our children now live in California and Colorado, managing long-distance gift giving is a challenge. Their presents have changed from Star Wars action figures to San Francisco Symphony gifts certificates for Adam and from Cabbage Patch dolls to Colorado photography for Julie.

Larry and I decided a few years ago that Chanukah is more about candles and potato pancakes and time with friends, and we no longer exchange gifts. For the past few years, a group of us empty nesters have gathered around Toby and Arnie Elman’s dining room table, first to light the candles on our menorahs and then to share a dinner of dairy foods, potato pancakes, and Toby’s fantastic home-made plum laced applesauce. We top it off with fruit and my homemade chocolate chip cookies, a recipe that seems much more successful and crowd pleasing than my sugar cookies.

This year, Thanksgiving and Chanukah will occur on the same day for the first time since 1888 and, according to one calculation, an event that won’t happen again for another 77,798 years, Larry and I will be celebrating Thanksgivukkah with over thirty people at our cousins’ annual get-together in Argyle. Our “traditional” meal has always been eclectic: the traditional turkey, stuffing, potatoes, squash, and cranberry sauce; the chapchae, an Asian noodle dish that our Korean cousin makes every year; the tofurkey for the vegetarians; the Asian pears brought in from New York City; my sister-in-law’s decadent broccoli casserole; the pies from Riverview Orchards; and the Krause’s chocolates from Schenectady. This year, our celebration will include, for the first time, potato pancakes and apple sauce. And maybe, just for the fun of it, I will make the sugar cookies. Dredyls and turkeys sound a good combination, at least for a once-in-a-lifetime Thanksgivukkah celebration!

A version of this article originally appeared in the November 21, 2013, Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

Reflections on Hanukkah, Israel, and Antisemitism

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On Thursday, December 7, 2023, Jews around the world will begin celebrating Hanukkah, which commemorates a time in Jewish history where we faced the possibility of annihilation.Now, 2190 years later, Jews face yet another enemy whose covenant calls to obliterate the state of Israel and to carry its jihad against all Jews “until judgement day.” As I light my candles over the holiday’s eight days, I will reflect on the following.

One: I stand with Israel. Absolutely. I am sad, afraid, angry and grieving for all the lives lost during this conflict. But Israel did not start this war. Hamas did. And the Israeli Defense Force (IDF), like the Maccabees, must fight with every ounce of their strength to root out the evil that is Hamas.

Two: The rise over the lawsuit and the proposed highway.of antisemitism around the around the world is terrifying, and it is hitting too close to home. Who would have thought that neo-Nazis would be marching outside the gates of Disney? That banners with swastikas would be hung on an I-4 overpass? That our Florida synagogue would have to hire a security guard so that we can attend services without fear of being mowed down like the members of Pittsburgh’s Tree of Life?

Shortly after the October 7 massacre by Hamas, Jewish community leaders and a representative from the AntiDefamation League met with Congressman Darren Soto.He opened our meeting by pledging his support for Israel and the Jewish community. “I have your back,” he said. “We must stand against all forms of hate.” He then turned the meeting over to his constituents, where we were able to voice our concerns. As the war continues, I will be in contact with my representatives on the state and national level to encourage them to continue their support.

Three: I am prouder than ever to be a Jew. For many years, I have worn a butterfly charm on a necklace, which represents to me the souls of the six million who died in the Holocaust. Soon after the war began, I dug out my Jewish star and added it to my necklace, displaying my connection to Judaism with pride and resolve.

Four: During this terrible time, attending services at my synagogue gives me a sense of community. At times it feels that it is the Jews against the world. Being in a room where I am not alone in our fears, sadness, and grief. gives me comfort.

Five: I will continue to use my writing to bear witness to moments of Jewish sacrifice, survival, and strength.Since 2017, I have been writing down stories of Eastern European Jews escaping pogroms, Holocaust survivors, WWII Jewish soldiers, and Jews and Righteous Gentiles who fought and continue to fight against Jew-hatred and Holocaust denial. My writing has found a purpose: To make sure their stories are never forgotten.

Six: Israel needs more than hopes and prayers and words. It is in desperate need of funds to counteract the effects of this war on its economy and its citizens.The websites of the ADL and other Jewish organizations list recommended donation sites, including Magen David Adom (MDA), Israel’s national emergency medical response organization; Leket Israel, the country’s largest food bank; and Hadassah Hospital, which treats both Jews and Arabs.

Seven: I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of compassion and support from my non-Jewish friends. “My heart is broken in two,” wrote Ginny Campbell. “We all share one God. I can only believe His heart is broken too.Know my prayers are with you and all our brothers and sisters who are grieving tonight. Love can and must win out in the end.”

Eight: Following the lead of Israelis who have suffered such great loss, I will find joy and hope. “We are part of a people that sanctifies life,” Rabbi Doron Perez, reflecting on the October 23 wedding of his son, who suffered a leg injury on October 7, and another son has been declared missing “[The future] will be a new dawn and a much better time for the Jewish people”

“I am a Jew because at every time when despair cries out, the Jew hopes,” wrote French writer and thinker Edmond Fleg in 1927. Only time will tell what will happen in the future. Over eight evenings, our family will light our colorful Hanukkah candles. This year, we will add to the traditional blessings the Mi Sheberach, a prayer for physical and emotional healing for all human beings facing illness and pain; and Oseh Shalom, a prayer for peace, salaam, shalom. שָׁלוֹם

Originally published in the Orlando Sentinel, December 3, 2023.

Marilyn Shapiro, Kissimmee, is a retired educator and an author. Her blog is http://www.theregoesmyheart.me.

My Sources:

https://www.rollingstone.com/politics/political-commentary/neo-nazis-thriving-florida-ron-desantis-1234824505/

https://www.washingtonpost.com/national-security/2023/11/12/hamas-planning-terror-gaza-israel/?

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamas_Charter#:~:text=The Covenant proclaims that Israel,instilling these views in children.

My Unforgettable Halloween

There Goes My Heart

The stories on "There Goes My Heart " capture special moments in a lifetime spent in Upstate New York, Florida, Colorado, and beyond.

Author Archives: Marilyn Shapiro

About Marilyn Shapiro

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