Category Archives: Travel

I am a Cryptoquote addict

Hello. My name is Marilyn, and I am a Cryptoquote addict. The addiction actually snuck up on me.

For years I had done the daily crossword puzzle in Schenectady, New York’s, Daily Gazette,when I got to it before Larry. An English major in college and a reading and writing teacher as an adult, I have enjoyed a sense of satisfaction and contentment to find the exact word to fit into the correct boxes.

Crossword puzzles, however, had never become addictive. I have never dwelled upon the fact that I don’t know a Stanley Donen movie (“Deep in My Heart”), a phrase for being stuck (in a rut), a six-letter word for crown (diadem) or the 1967 and 1968 Super Bowl MVP (Starr). I am not ashamed of resorting to online crossword puzzle solvers if I can’t figure it out. I defer to Larry for most sports questions, as he defers to me for arts and literature. I have even quit and tossed them, unfinished, into the recycling bin.

But Cryptoquotes were/are different. After years of seeing Larry’s handwriting in black felt tip pen under the AXYDLBAAXR is LONGFELLOW hint, I decided around 1992 to find out the attraction of decoding a nonsensical jumble of letters into a meaningful statement. It was love at first attempt.

Not only did it satisfy the reading teacher in me (recognizing those two-and three-letter consonant blends such as “th,” “sh,” and “ght” often unlocked the puzzle), but I also was intrigued by the messages that the Cryptoquote revealed. Some needed explanation—Who is Morpheus, and why should I care about his hand?— but others were humorous or prophetic enough to type into my Favorite Quotes journal I keep on my computer.

Larry graciously gave me full right to the Gazette until our move. As our Orlando paper doesn’t carry it, my dear husband found an on-line source that he prints out for me daily.

Unlike many crypto puzzles whose solutions are puns or, for me, just too simple, the King Features Syndicate Cryptoquote finds sometimes lengthy quotes from notable people, many whom I admire. I solved the following only two days after Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s death on September 18, 2020: “My mother told me to be a lady. and for her, that meant be your own person, be independent.” Other solutions offered me insights that I continue to carry with me. Since decrypting Plato’s words, “Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools talk because they have to say something,” I have often thought twice before blurting out something just to fill the void.

For twenty-two years I have been given words of wisdom —and some laughs—from individuals ranging from Abraham to Zachariah, from Chaucer to Cookie Monster, and from Shakespeare to Shakira, as well as the prolific Anonymous and Source Unknown.

Larry and I have a routine. Sitting next to each other on the couch in the den, Larry hands me one of the two crossword puzzles he has printed out that morning. Sometimes we each finish it alone; other times, one of us asks, “Do you want to start working on it together?”

The minute I am finished—or have given up—I immediately dive into my Cryptoquote. Most of the time, I work through it quickly. There are nights when I don’t go to bed until I can figure it out. When I get desperate, I ask Larry for a hint. (“Is the third letter in the first word an ‘e’?). He consults the online solution and provides the clue.

And, yes, there are days that I cannot solve it. The next day, I usually have to kick myself for missing the obvious. Not figuring out the words Merry Christmas in a holiday greeting from “Your Cryptoquote Friends” on a December 24th puzzle embarrassed me as did not realizing the author was the Notorious RBG herself. I have worked on those with whom I cannot easily break the code on long car rides, in doctors’ offices and, admittedly, boring group ZOOM calls.

I knew I was truly addicted when, two years into my doing the puzzle, the Cryptoquote was not in its usual page in the Gazette. I began flipping rapidly through the classifieds and then through the entire D Section. Nothing. Frantically, I began searching through the entire paper, thinking . . . hoping . . . that maybe the powers that be had decided to move the heart of the paper to a more prominent section. On the Op-Ed page? Next to Ann Landers? In the obituaries?

“Larry,” I yelled to my husband. “I can’t find the Cryptoquote.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. He began a search, calmer, less hurried, but no more fruitful.

Not fooling around, I called the paper. to the source. Hi,” I said to the Gazette operator. “I don’t know if you guys are aware of this, but . . . The Cryptoquote is missing!”

On the other end of the line, there was a brief moment of silence. Then a tired voice said, “Yes, we are aware of the situation. We will publish two Cryptoquotes tomorrow, unless you want to come to Maxon Road for a copy today.”

I quickly calculated the time it would take for the round trip to Schenectady. Forty minutes; with GE traffic, maybe an hour. I declined the offer. I can wait until tomorrow, I thought. It will be hard, but I can wait.

There was something in the operator’s tone, however, that made me quickly realize that I was not the first to call.

“Have you gotten other complaints?” I asked.

“Dozens” she said wearily. “The phone began ringing off the hook at 6:30 a.m. and hasn’t stopped since.”

“Were most as nice as me?” I asked tentatively.

“No,” she said. “There were a lot of angry callers demanding to know why they hadn’t been published.”

I expressed my sympathies, thanked her for her help, and hung up, breathing a sigh of relief. Tomorrow . . . less than 16 hours from then, I would have two puzzles to solve. Furthermore, I could come out of the closet and join the ranks of those who are addicted.

My name is Marilyn, and I am a Cryptoquote addict.

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

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.

My Unforgettable Halloween

I Am Enough

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I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence but it comes from within. It is there all the time. Anna Freud

Since 2015, Larry and I have spent six weeks in Frisco, Colorado, a beautiful mountain town nestled in the Rockies. Our rented condo is a two-minute walk to my daughter Julie and her family. We breathe in the fresh mountain air and savor the beauty that surrounds us. We hike on miles of trail that take us under shimmering aspens, by flowing streams, and onto the shores of blue mountain lakes that reflected the snow-topped mountains.

Frisco has always been a place of peace and renewal, but this summer I carried with me an emotional burden. I had recently launched on Amazon Keep Calm and Bake Challah: How I Survived the Pandemic, Politics, Pratfalls, and Other of Life’s Problems. My fourth book had been met with much initial excitement and congratulatory praise from the family and friends I had notified, but I had sold only eleven copies. Book stores and businesses to whom I had sent copies had not responded, and a planned ZOOM book club centered on my writing fell through. Since my post-retirement venture into writing and blogging, I had published over 300 articles and self-published three books in addition to Keep Calm, but I was disappointed in my perceived lack of feedback and inability to grow my audience.

Larry tried to comfort me by sharing his pride in what I had accomplished, but to no avail. I reached out to a few close friends to share my hurt. One friend offered wise advice. “You put yourself behind the eight ball when you rely on others to make you feel successful,” she wrote in late-night text. “If you can internalize your completing and following through on your passion, you are a success.” I ignored her as well. Two recommended counseling. I told them I’d think about it.

Instead, my doubts spread to every major decision I had made in my life. I questioned every choice I had ever made: my college, my major, my career, my houses, my retirement, even the color I had painted the walls inside of my house.

Outside of entries into my daily journal, I stopped writing. “I’m taking a break,” I wrote to Laurie Clevenson, my editor at the Capital Region of New York’s Jewish World. “Are you okay?” she, who had become accustomed to a submission every two weeks for the past ten years, wrote back immediately. I initially drafted a long explanation of my emotional state then deleted it. “I just need time off,” I reiterated. “I want to enjoy my time in the mountains without deadlines.”

I finally shared with Julie my crushing disappointment I had experienced when sales—and the resulting praise—for my articles and my books—failed to meet up to my expectations. My daughter, as always, was compassionate and understanding. “I’m sorry I didn’t provide the external validation you needed for your writing,” she said.

WAIT! Wasn’t that what my friend had referenced when she tried to console me in June? I went back to read over her text. “You also cannot make others feel obligated to stroke your ego,” she had said, a comment that angered me at the time. “I have learned that it is unimportant what others think, you need to be proud of YOU.”

For the first time in my life, I realized how much I had depended on external validation.This was not limited to my writing. Almost every aspect of my life, I had required the approval and thumbs-up from family, friends, and even strangers. Did I choose the right career path? Buy the right house? Wear the right clothes? Weigh the right amount on the bathroom scale? Choose the right doctor? Travel to the right places with the right cruise line/tour group or guide book? Plan our retirement the right way? My need for validation was obsessive, intrusive, and self-defeating.

With this new insight, I finally began to heal. Walking outside, surrounded by mountains and aspens and waterfalls and creeks, I realized that I write because I simply love to write. I took pride in the fact that my articles had been published in media sources from as close as Orlando’s Heritage and as far away as Australia. I was grateful for the time I had taken to interview, research, and write stories about Jewish Holocaust survivors so their sacrifice, strength, and survival can be recognized. And yes, I had gotten positive feedback from many readers, including my blog followers. Even though my books may never be on the New York Times best seller list, I have given my children and grandchildren a gift of my stories that will be my legacy.

Moreover, I extended this new-found self-acceptance to other areas of my life. I chose not to focus on what Robert Frost called “The Road Not Taken,” Instead, I took pride and joy in all the decisions I had made alone or with Larry that led us to the life we have now, which is filled with love, joy, thankfully good health, and happiness. Rather than depending on others to validate my choices, I decided to trust myself.

The weight I had been carrying for my whole life began to slide off my shoulders. As the poet e.e. cummings wrote, “ “Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.” Since the pandemic, my mantra had been “I am exactly where I need to be.” I now have added the following: “I am enough. I do enough. I have enough.” And I don’t need anyone but myself to affirm that fact.

What a lovely way to start off the Jewish New Year! L’Shana Tova!

Does history repeat itself? Am I like my parents?

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In 2015, Larry and I sold our home in Upstate New York and relocated to a community in Central Florida. As Larry and I have fully embraced our new life in the Sunshine State, let us compare our retirement life near Orlando to my parents’ retirement years near Fort Lauderdale.

When the last of the Cohen children headed for college, my parents spent a couple of weeks each winter in Florida. When they retired, they sold the house in Keeseville and moved into their cottage on Lake Champlain. They escaped to Florida for two or three months in the dead of winter, splitting their time between short-term rentals and relatives’ pull-out couches. In time, they purchased a one-bedroom condo in Hawaiian Gardens, a complex in Lauderdale Lakes that they had heard about through a friend who lived at the complex.

After years of living in a community with lots of snow and with few Jewish people, they thrived in the sunshine and in the company of Yiddishkeit, fellow Jews who had moved to the Sunshine State from New York City and Long Island. Their lives fell into a pattern. They shopped at Publix and went to their doctors’ appointments in the morning. By noon, they joined all the other retirees by the small community pool. The women splashed around in the water while the men kibitzed on their beach chairs under large umbrellas. The conversation consisted of bad jokes, condo gossip, politics, and discussions as to which restaurants offered the best early bird specials. My mother had grown up speaking Yiddish to her parents, and my father knew a few expressions, so they started a popular Yiddish Club that met once a week. Dad played poker; Mom went to flea markets with friends.

Outside of my father’s occasional game of golf, my parents got their exercise walking back and forth to the pool. Deerfield Beach was only a half an hour away, but my father hated the sun, the heat, and the sand. As a result, my mother, who didn’t drive in Florida, limited her visits to the ocean to when her children could take her when we visited.

Hawaiian Gardens offered entertainment in the clubhouse, usually a singer or a comedian who had worked on the Borscht Belt. The performers weren’t paid a great deal, many were a little beyond their prime, and the audience could be downright cruel. During one of our visits, a woman singer

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was belting out Broadway tunes. When she asked if the audience would like her to do an encore, one of the residents yelled out, “No! You’re terrible! Get off the stage!”

Larry and I flew down at least once a year and joined them in their routine. In the morning, I would take my mother to the supermarket or the flea market. At noon, we headed to the pool. At three o’clock, no matter how beautiful the weather, we all went upstairs to get ready to leave their apartment by four o’clock for that day’s early bird special. The meals varied in quality, but there were tons of food with enough leftovers, extra bread, lemon slices, and a few Sweet ’n Low packets to take home for the next day’s lunch. Even when they relocated to a larger condo, their routine remained the same. And their lives always included visits from relatives and friends from New York as well as get-togethers with new friends they had made.

Although we enjoyed our visits, Larry and I could not picture ourselves living the sedentary East Coast Florida condo life that my parents enjoyed. When we moved to our adult active community in Central Florida, we felt we had found our own slice of heaven. Our home sat on a large scenic lot with plenty of room for family and friends to visit. Our community had two community recreational centers where I could take exercise classes and swim laps. Larry could play pickleball. We had miles of neighborhood streets where we could take long walks and longer bike rides. Many clubs and groups offered us innumerable ways to meet people from around the country and the world. Many of the activities revolved around the synagogue and the Shalom Club, but we also participated in club activities offered by groups with ties to Italy, England, the Caribbean, and Western Upstate New York. We had a full, diverse life.

Once we lived here for a few months, however, I realized how much we have in common with my parents. Has it been that different? We head to the pickleball courts, the pool, and fitness classes in the morning. Then we plan our doctors’ appointments and our trip to Publix in the afternoon. Flipped schedule, but…. We often head to our favorite restaurant by four o’clock so we can beat the crowds. Recent entertainment included a headliner from the Sixties whose toupee and fancy tux didn’t cover the fact that his body and voice were not what they were fifty years ago. The ocean is only ninety minutes away, but we don’t feel like fighting the traffic. We share a great deal of time with our family and our old friends from around the country. And, like my parents, we escape the summer heat by spending time in Frisco, Colorado. It’s not Lake Champlain, but at 9100 feet it certainly beats Florida’s summers.

Both of our children have visited us in our home in Florida. They and their families have repeatedly told us they were glad that we are so happy here. However, I doubt if either of them or their families would select the lifestyle we have chosen. Our daughter Julie and her husband Sam love living in the Rockies, where they have mountains, forests, and plenty of trails available for hiking and skiing. Our son Adam and his wife love living in San Francisco, enjoying all that wonderful city and California have to offer. I hope wherever my children live, they will enjoy sunny skies, good health, and lots of

activities to keep busy. Most importantly, I hope they find joy in wherever life takes them.

In her eulogy to Grandma Fran, Julie spoke of my mother’s legacy. “She taught me about the woman I’d like to be, one filled with love, generosity, wisdom, wit, empathy, and a belief that we can create our own happiness in life by searching for the blessings.” That is the life my mother, “Frances Fradel” Cohen, lived with her “Dear Bill.” May their memories— and the memories they shared with all who knew and loved them—be a blessing.

A version of this article originally appeared in the July 2017 issue of the Heritage Florida Jewish News, a weekly subscription-based newspaper in Central Florida.

A version of this article originally appeared in the July 2017 issue of the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York.

As a Jew, I fear what is happening in Florida

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“Have money set aside and have flesh on your bones.”

This was the advice given to a friend who grew up as the daughter of Holocaust survivors. Her parents instilled in her and her brother the need for hyper-vigilance in case the unthinkable happened again. The couple’s circle of friends, fellow survivors of Nazi Germany, expanded the advice to include a ready passport and a warm coat in which money and jewels were sewn into the lining.

Since 2015, I have been researching and writing stories about Holocaust victims as told by themselves or their children. Each story relives in me the sacrifice, the terror, and the strength shown by the targets of Hitler’s Final Solution. And it comes down to this: Although they comprised a mere 1.7% of the population of Europe when Hitler came to power in 1933, over six million men, women, and children were murdered for the crime of being Jewish.

Hitler’s campaign against the Jews didn’t start with guns and ghettos and gas ovens. It started in 1933 with words: slow building propaganda effort to denigrate Jews, their accomplishments, and achievements. Those words were reinforced with images: distorted drawings of Jews as controlling octopi, fat bankers, and Christ killers. Words and images morphed into book bans and book burning. These actions grew into increasingly more restrictive laws regarding where Jews could work, shop, seek medical attention, and live. By November 10 , 1938, Kristallnacht, “Night of the Broken Glass,” Jews had neither rights nor means to escape. Trapped, two-thirds of Europe’s Jewry were murdered by bullets, beatings, starvation, or the gas chamber.

Unfortunately, the lessons of the Holocaust has done little to end Jew hatred. According to the Anti-Defamation League, antisemitic incidents in Florida have doubled since 2020, with 269 incidents of assault, harassment, and vandalism reported. This rise has been seen across the United States and the world. In a recent interview with Steven Colbert, Stephen Spielberg commented, “Not since Germany in the ’30s have I witnessed antisemitism, no longer lurking but standing proud with hands on hips like Hitler and Mussolini — kind of daring us to defy it. I’ve never experienced this in my entire life. Especially in this country.”

On June 10, 2023, neo-Nazis had held a rally not far from the gates of Disney World, in which they waved posters with swastikas, Nazi flags, the Florida state flag and posters supporting Ron DeSantis, the governor of Florida. While other Florida leaders across party lines immediately stepped up to condemn the actions, DeSantis has yet to comment. As noted in an article in the 6/12/2023 Tallahassee Democrat, “While the governor has been quick to tout his pro-Israel support and legislation, his office has in the past been slower to weigh in on public antisemitic displays.”

Books and course work pertaining to the Holocaust have been caught up in Florida’s legislators fight against “woke” education. History of the Holocaust, an on-line course, and Modern Genocide were rejectedfor including topics on social justice and critical race theory. A third book was allowed after “politically charged language” was removed.

As a result of complaints from parents in Martin County, Florida, Jodi Picoult’s The Story Teller, a novel about a friendship between a former Nazi SS officer and the granddaughter of an Auschwitz survivor, was taken off the district’s shelves for “sexually graphic scenes, including depictions of sexual assault by Nazi guards. Picoult, a bestselling author who saw 19 more of her books targeted by anti-woke advocates denounced the move. “Books bridge divides between people, said Picoult. “Book bans create them”

Florida’s current climate comes chillingly too close to what happened in Nazi Germany. Despite the fact that transgender people make up approximately 1% of the nation’s population, the Republican legislators in Tallahassee have passed bills restricting transgenders from using public bathroom, denying them gender affirming medical treatment and drugs, and limiting the rights of parents of transgender children. In response to Tallahassee’s attempts “to erase Black history and restrict diversity, equity, and inclusion programs in Florida schools.” the NAACP justifiably issued a travel advisory to African Americans, people of color and LGBTQ+ individuals

Since 2021, DeSantis and the Republican legislature have passed bills that, as reported in a 4/23/2023 Washington Post article, will give us an idea what “Make Florida America” would look like under a DeSantis presidency. Restrict third-party registration groups, which have long been in the forefront of signing up Black and other minority voters. Eliminate campus diversity programs. Prohibit state and local governments from making investments based on environmental, societal and governance (ESI) benchmarks. Ban abortions after six weeks, Expand “Don’t Say Gay” to include all grades (K-12) in public schools. Make it easier to sue news media for defamation and win. Make it harder to sue insurance companies. Allow gun owners to carry concealed weapons without permit or proof of training. Allow DeSantis to run for president without resigning the governorship and without having to disclose his travel records while campaigning around the country.

Florida residents have a choice. We can leave, finding a place—hopefully that does not require passport and a warm coat that conceals valuables—that is more accepting. Or we can stay and fight with our words and our images and our vote. Thomas Kennedy, a Florida activist, stated in a 6/27/2023 Miami Herald article that the current far-right climate may serve as a motivation for change. “If we don’t at least check these….far-right figures that are starting to create a laboratory for extremist policies in Florida,” said Kennedy, “the Florida of today could become the America of tomorrow.” Remember this as we celebrate our country’s birth and look ahead to our country’s future.

https://antisemitism.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/Antisemitic-imagery-May-2020.pdf

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2023/mar/03/steven-spielberg-says-antisemitism-today-is-standing-proud-with-hands-on-hips-like-hitler

https://itstartedwithwords.org/resources/antisemitism/timeline-of-antisemitism/

Bestselling writer Jodi Picoult denounces Florida book ban

https://www.miamiherald.com/news/politics-government/article276707966.html

.https://www.tallahassee.com/story/news/local/2023/06/12/nazi-flags-at-disney-how-has-ron-desantis-addressed-antisemitism/70312857007/
https://www.thejc.com/news/world/jodi-picoult-holocaust-novel-banned-from-school-in-inappropriate-books-row-5ciENrdr4HmK7DDw21I4ku

https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2023/04/16/ron-desantis-florida-proposals

First published in the Capital Region’s Jewish World, a bi-weekly publication.

Schooling in the Olden Days

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While in Frisco, Colorado, in August 2015 to welcome our new granddaughter, Larry and I visited the nearby Dillion schoolhouse, a two-room museum that was built in 1883 and served as the town’s main educational facility until 1910. Walking into that old building with its wooden floors, dusty chalkboards, and old-fashioned seats transported me back in time to my own experience in a two-room school house in the 1950’s.

When our family moved to Keeseville, all classes from kindergarten to twelfth grade were held in a big brick structure on top of Main Street that was built in 1936, when improved methods of transportation allowed for consolidation of the the area’s small one-and two room school houses.By the mid-fifties, however, a growing population fueled by the near-by Plattsburgh Air Force base necessitated the construction of a new elementary school. In the meantime, students were shipped off to other locations. My brother Jay spent fourth grade in the town’s old shirt factory. Two years later, I was part of the the group of students who were bussed the four miles to the two-room school house in Port Kent.

I am not sure how the teachers felt about being transported back in time one hundred years, but we students loved it. The building itself was comprised of two huge rooms that were linked by a connecting door. Two wooden stoves provided the heat, the old oak floors were scuffed and the bathrooms were far from modern. However, it was fun for us in Mrs. Smith’s second grade class to be next door to the third grade class. The school was set on a hill in a large grassy lot that overlooked Lake Champlain. Lessons were punctuated with the sounds of train whistles from the Port Kent railroad station and horns from the ferries that transported cars to and from Burlington, Vermont.

Each day, we would be taught reading, writing, and arithmetic. The school would transport lunches, and we would eat at our desks. We loved our teacher, Mrs. Smith, who was sweet and kind and looked a great deal like Loretta Young. My friend Julie Thompson Berman had special memories of Mrs. Smith: A left hander, her second grade teacher tried to “convert her” until Julie’s father set the teacher straight; having Mrs. Smith was a relief.

Most of the students walked up to the high school and took buses to Port Kent, but some of the students lived in Port Kent. Steven Bullis and Barbara Klages lived within walking distance of the school. Barbara lived in a huge house right next to the railroad tracks. The trains went roaring past her front porch several times a day, and I thought she was the luckiest person in the world. No matter where we lived, the intimacy of the small school resulted in friendships that have lasted a lifetime. Along with Barbara and Steve, I met Julie, Betsy, Linda, Betsy, and Mike in Port Kent, and most of us remained classmates and friends throughout our graduation in 1968. It was also while in Port Kent I had my first heartbreak: I was in love with Jay Sussdorf, who moved away at the end of second grade.

One of my clearest memories was our performing in Hansel and Gretel. As I had been a witch that past Halloween, I got to play the villain to Julie’s starring role as Gretel; she pushed me into the “oven,” a table covered in black construction paper with a drawing of the fireplace.

The next September, we started the school year in Port Kent. The elementary school was finished over the winter vacation, and we started going to classes there in January, 1958. The new school was shiny and modern and beautiful. However, looking back, I have fonder memories my year and a half in that little red schoolhouse than I do about the new building.

Ironically, many years later, Adam and Julie had the opportunity to attend school in a similar building. Both children went to the Clifton Park Nursery school in the little red school house on the corner of Moe and Grooms Road. As a cooperative preschool, Larry and I participated as a helping parent in Adam and Julie’s classrooms on a rotating basis. One of Julie’s earliest memories is Larry coming in on Halloween as a clown with a big red honking nose. She thought she was the luckiest child in the world to have such a funny, talented father. Both children loved going to nursery school in that old building with its wooden floors, huge old windows, and parent-made shelves lining the walls filled with toys and books and arts and craft material.

My Mountain Girl’s elementary school in Frisco, a modern building with a huge playground, is only a few blocks from her home. I doubt if she will follow in the footsteps of her grandmother and mother. However, she is learning about the history of her small Rocky Mountain town: the Ute Indians who originally lived along its rivers, the mountain men who trapped beaver in this territory in the first half of the nineteenth century, the miners and their families who settled the town in the 1870’s. She enjoys picnics and concerts in the town’s historic park, where she plays in original buildings that once served as homes, a jail, a chapel, a saloon and brothel! And she can explore the the Schoolhouse Museum, with its wooden floors, dusty chalkboards, and wooden seats. And on one of our visits, I will share the stories of my own adventures in a two-room schoolhouse on top of a hill overlooking Lake Champlain.

A version of this article originally appeared in the Jewish World News, a bi-weekly subscription-based newspaper in upstate New York, on August 6, 2015.

Larry’s classic clown outfit in 1985. Adam and Julie were delighted!

Generous Hearts

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One of the joys of our lives has been our ability to have the time and luxury to travel. Larry and I have seen Macho Picchu shrouded in clouds, savored coffee and pastries in Vienna, swum in luminous waters in Jamaica, and hiked trails in the Rocky Mountains. Along the way, we have met people who have briefly enriched our lives and, in some cases, have become dear friends. It was on a 2014 trip to Greece, however, that we experienced an encounter that was so special, so unique, so generous, that it will always be considered one of the highlights of our travels.

In September, 2014, Larry and I went to the Greek isle of Naxos with two other couples that we had met through our trips to Jamaica, Peter and Margaret from England, who had recommended the island from their previous visits, and Linda and Rob from Alberta, Canada. We spent our first three days enjoying the beautiful beach across from our rented rooms above the owner’s restaurant. In the evening, the six of us would pile into our rented van and drive the three or four miles into town to eat at one of the many al fresco restaurants available in the town center.

Peter and Margaret had told us that the people of Naxos were known for their generosity, and we saw this from the first day we were there. Every morning at breakfast, our hostess Anna always brought us “a gift” of donuts or pastries or biscuits with our eggs and toast. At dinner, along with the bill, our waiters brought out a special treat —a glass of wine, some fresh fruit, a small parfait—that was always presented as “our gift to you for eating in our restaurant.”

On the fourth day, Peter and Margaret suggested we take a day trip into the mountains to visit the Temple of Demeter, a site of ancient Greek ruins dating around 5300 BCE. We climbed up narrow paths to a lovely site overlooking green pastures and rolling hills on both sides. After viewing the site and taking numerous pictures, we headed into the town of Filoti for lunch.

We all dined on gyros, the national fast food of Greece, in an al fresco restaurant in a bustling town square. After lunch, we walked through the town’s quiet, narrow streets with marble steps leading up to residential homes and the town’s Greek Orthodox church.

The outside of the church was in the iconic Greek style, white walls with blue doors. Inside, we found a small room decorated with the icons, statues and other symbols of Greek Orthodoxy. We each dropped a euro into a contribution basket, thanked the elderly gentleman who was serving as the church greeter, and started to leave. The man stopped us, thanked us again for our contribution, and in very broken English, asked from where we were. We explained our nationalities, and, after introducing himself as Georgio*, he said “Come, come see my home!” We followed him out of the church, up another flight of marble stairs, and in front of a lovely three story white building with the classic Greek doors.

Georgio led us into the first level, where his wife was in the kitchen cooking at her stove. “Guests!” he said to her, and introduced his wife Athena. She greeted us as if having six strangers come into her home was an everyday occurrence, and joined Georgio on the tour.The first floor was the living area, filled with ornate furniture with floors covered in beautiful white marble and walls decorated with pictures of their parents, grandparents, and their two sons. The next level, accessed through outdoor staircase, led to a bedroom off a balcony. The third level had another bedroom off another balcony that offered views of the church’s bell tower as well as the the surrounding mountains.

We posed for pictures with Athena and Georgio, thanked them, and began our leaving when Athena* said, “Come! Come see our museum.” She grabbed a set of old fashioned keys and led us down the stairs to another white building with the ubiquitous blue doors.

Inside was a large room meticulously recreated by the local women’s guild to look like a Greek home from the 1800’s. A large table dominated the room, with walls covered with pictures of families from the 1800’s, tapestries, and all sorts of embroidered dresses and linens. In the corner was a lovely canopied bed with embroidered nightgowns laid out as if someone was to slip into the warm comforters for the night. We felt as if we had stepped back two hundred years.

Again, we thanked her profusely and started to leave. “Wait!” she indicated, and pulled out of the cupboard a bottle of liqueur, which she poured into small glasses and passed out. We all raised our glasses with shouts of “Oompah” and “Cheers” and “L’chaim.” She turned down our offer of Euros for the museum, but when Peter pressed money in her hand and said, “For your church,” and she smiled and accepted it.

As we walked the short distance back into the center of town and back to our van, Peter and Margaret, seasoned travelers, commented that in all their years of seeing the world, never before had they encountered such generosity and openness. “Can you imagine,” Rob mused, “if I walked into my home with six strangers and said to Linda, “We have guests!” The six of us left shaking our heads in awe. In a world filled with so much hatred and fear, we found in a tiny town nestled in the hills of a Greek island friendliness, warmth and two very generous hearts.

*Not their real names.

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

We continue and they continue: The Czech Torahs

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“Each Memorial Scroll is a memory of the past and a messenger for the future” Memorial Scrolls Trust, London, U.K.

They escaped destruction by the Nazis. They survived Communism, They found their ways to new homes around the world. This is a story of three Torahs that had their roots in vanished Czechoslovakian Jewish communities.

Up until World War II, Czechoslovakia had a thriving Jewish population that first reached the area over 1000 years ago. With the rise of Hitler came increased anti-Semitism and eventually The Final Solution. Throughout Europe, synagogues were burned and the vast majority of Jews were murdered. Almost all Jewish artifacts—Torahs, candlesticks, heprayerbooks—were destroyed.

The one exception was the Bohemia and Moravia, with its population of 115,000 Jews. This area in Czechoslovakia was declared a “German protectorate”. Miraculously, except for the items in Sudetenland, most of the artifacts remained unscathed during the early years of the war.

In 1942, the Nazis ordered all Jewish synagogue possessions in the region to be sent to Prague. The Jewish communities of Prague, believing the Judaica would be safer if stored in one place, worked closely with the Nazis to collect and catalogue over 210,000 items. In the end, it took 40 warehouses to store the treasure. Unfortunately, nearly every Jew who worked on the project were sent to their deaths in the concentration camp.

The Czech Torahs survived the war but almost did not survive Communism. The Torah and other scrolls, believed to number between 1800 and 2200, lay in a musty, damp warehouse until 1963. At that point, Czech government, in need of foreign currency, sold the scrolls to Ralph Yablon, a philanthropist and founder member of Westminster Synagogue in London. On February 5, 1964, 1564 Torah and other scrolls arrived at the synagogue. They were divided into three categories: those in usable condition, those in need of some repair; and those deemed too far damaged to be restored.

The Memorial Scrolls Trust was then set up to preserve and restore the Czech scrolls. Each one had an identity plaque fixed to one of the etz chaim, the wooden shafts onto which the Torah is rolled. They were loaned out to Jewish communities and organizations around the world in need of a Torah, with the understanding that the congregation was responsible for the scroll’s upkeep. The Torah, as per stipulations by the MST, were never sold or donated but allocated on loan on the understanding that they would only need to be returned if the synagogue no longer operated. According to Jeffrey Ohrenstein, Chair, MST, 1400 scrolls have been allocated on loan around the world. Approximately 150 scrolls remain in the Memorial Scrolls Trust museum, which also has some 500 binders and wimples.

At least six Czech scrolls are on loan in the Capital District and surrounding areas: Beth Emeth, Congregation Ohav Shalom, Gates of Heaven, Temple Sinai, Congregation Beth Shalom, and Congregation Beth El.

I first had the honor of holding a Holocaust Torah as a member of Congregation Beth Shalom in Clifton Park, New York. In1981, the synagogue requested from MST a replacement for three that had been stolen. Abbey and Richard Green, CBS congregants, helped fund the costs of shipping the Czech Torah MST#293 (circa1870) from London. A tag, dating back to the dark days of the Shoah, read “The Elders of the Jewish Community in Prague”.

At the time, Beth Shalom was less than ten years old, an irony that was not lost on one of its congregant. Yetta Fox, herself the child of Holocaust survivors, stated that having the Torah at a new congregation was “almost like a second life.”“Having lost one community,” said Yetta, “there is now a new community that can nurture this Torah.”

Early in 2007, the congregation arranged to have needed repairs done on the parchment of the 137-year-old Torah. That June, the congregation held a rededication ceremony, which included a procession from the Clifton Park town hall to the synagogue five minutes up the road. During the march, the scrolls were passed from hand to hand under a chuppah that the children of the Hebrew school had decorated with Stars of David. Upon its arrival, the Torah was wrapped in a wimple, the cloth traditionally used to wrap a boy at his circumcision. “This is our baby,” said Fred Pineau, a former president, “so we’re wrapping it on our Torah.”

David Clayman, the current president, reported that the Torah is still in good condition. To preserve it, however, it is left rolled to Parasah Beshalach, which contains “The Song of the Sea,” gently unrolling it only once a year as prescribed by the MST. Every year, in the month of Shevat, the torah is brought out and Beshalach is chanted. “The scroll is so fragile, we are afraid to roll it to other parashot,”said David. The congregation brings out the Holocaust scroll twice more each year to be ceremonially held: On Kol Nidre, the solemn service commemorated during the opening hours of Yom Kippur; and on Simchas Torah, a holiday that celebrates the completion of the reading of Deuteronomy, and the beginning of Genesis.

When we moved to Florida, we joined Congregation Shalom Aleichem, which was founded in 1981, ironically the same year Congregation Beth Shalom had received its Czech Torah. Initially, congregants met at the Kissimmee Women’s Club. When Harry Lowenstein, a Holocaust survivor whose parents and sister number among the six million Jews killed during World War II, joined with his wife Carol, he began to press for a building of their own. “I saw a synagogue burn,” said Harry, “and I was determined to build another one.” Starting with a $120,000 contributions from Sandor Salmagne, another Holocaust survivor, the Lowensteins through their own and other contributions raised another $60,000 for building expenses.

As the synagogue on Pleasant Hill Road neared completion, the Lowensteins worked to obtain the prayer books for both every day and holy days, the Torah finials, and the Yartzheit (memorial) board. Most important to the congregation, however, was to obtain a Torah.

Lowenstein and other members reached out to the Memorial Scrolls Trust, noting in the correspondence that four of its members were Holocaust survivors. “Our Temple will be dedicated to the memory of the victims of the Holocaust,” wrote then president Henry Langer. “We would therefore deem it an honor to have you lend us a Scroll for our Temple.” With the Lowenstein’s financial support, they were able to obtain Scroll MST#408, from Pisek-Strakonice in what was then Czechoslovakia, about 60 miles south of Prague and dated back to circa 1775.

Once they received word that they would indeed be loaned a Czech TorahThe Lowensteins asked British friends who had a vacation home near the synagogue to be responsible for getting it from Heathrow to Orlando International airport. “[Our friend] sat on the plane with the Torah on his lap for 12 hours,” recalled Carol Lowenstein. “He would not let it out of his sight until he could hand the Torah to Harry.”

For those who had miraculously escaped hell, welcoming the Torah was like welcoming another Holocaust survivor. “It’s like holding a piece of history” said Phil Fuerst in a 1993 Orlando Sentinel article. “You feel like you own a piece of a world that survived.”

According to Marilyn Glaser, the congregation president, The congregation is making arrangement for the atzei chayim, which are broken, to be replaced in accordance of the terms of the loan agreement with MST.

In 1982, Sharon and Barry Kaufman, now residents of Kissimmee, obtained a Czech Torah in honor of their daughter Robin’s Bat Mitzvah for their Texas synagogue their congregation in Spring, Texas in honor of their daughter Robin’s upcoming Bat Mitzvah. While awaiting completion of their new building, Jewish Community North, a congregation in Spring Texas, was holding services at Christ the Good Shepherd Catholic Church. Their only torah was on temporary loan from another Houston-area synagogue. The Kaufmans worked with Rabbi Lawrence Jacofsky, the regional director of the United Association of Hebrew Congregations, to obtain Torah Scroll MST#20, written circa 1850.

When their precious cargo arrived at the Houston airport in February 1982, Barry and Sharon immediately brought the Torah to the church to show Father Ed Abell, Good Shepherd’s priest and their good friend. The three of them carefully unrolled the scroll where it had last been read: Yom Kippur 1938. The tenth of Tishri 5699 ( October 4 and 5, 1938.) Shortly after that service, the Jews that had worshipped in the Kostelec/Orlici synagogue were rounded up and sent to concentration camps, most—maybe all— never to return.

To commemorate the moment and to the shock and awe of the Kaufmans, Father Abell, using the yad (pointer) from the loaner Torah, read from the scroll in flawless Hebrew. That evening, Sharon and Barry brought the Torah home to show Robin. As they slowly unrolled the entire scroll on their pool table to make sure is was undamaged, they found a cardboard tag that had been attached when the scroll was catalogued by Jewish librarians and curators when the scroll arrived at the Central Jewish Museum Prague during the Shoah. Aeltesternrat der Juden Prague, it read in German. Elders of the Jews of Prague.

At Robin’s bat mitzvah in May 1982, the Torah was dressed in a cover sewn and embroidered by Barry’s mother. In a moving speech to the congregation held at Good Shepherd, Barry spoke eloquently about the Torah’s history.

If this Torah could talk—might it share with us the heart-wrenching knowledge of a prosperous people whose world had suddenly been taken from them, whose home and synagogues were gutted and destroyed for the value of their belongings? Would it tell us of the helpless terror in the fragile hearts of old men and women forced to watch their children brutally slaughtered before their own end was to come?”

After Barry spoke, the Ark was opened, and the Czech Torah was passed from the rabbi to Barry to Sharon to Robin. Clutching it tightly, Robin walked through the congregation. For the first time in two generations, a B’nai Mitzvot carried it with joy and reverence throughout a tearful congregation.

Three Czech Torahs. Three congregations. Thankfully, in the end, the Nazi’s plan to eradicate the Jewish people. As Gloria Kupferman stated in her speech at the rededication of the Congregation Beth Shalom Torah in 2007, “We are by no means extinct. We are alive. We are thriving.”

Special thanks to Jeffrey Ohrenstein, Chair, Memorial Scrolls Trust, London, U.K. Thanks to David Clayman, Yetta Fox, Marilyn Glaser, Frank Gutworth, Harry Lowenstein, Flo Miller, and Sharon and Barry Kaufman for their input.

Published in Jewish World (Capital Region NY), June 9, 2022 and Heritage Jewish News (Orlando, Fl) June 10, 2022

Sources:

https://www.albany.edu/news/releases/2005/nov2005/holocaust_scroll.shtml

www.cjcn.org

http://www.congregationbethshalomcp.webs.com

www.czechtorah.org/thestory.php.

www.memorialscrollstrust.org.

http://www.shalomaleichem.com

I am a pickleball putz

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I am a proud pickleball dropout. After a brief attempt to learn the game from my husband Larry, I realized that being interested in something and having enough talent to play on the most basic level are two different things.

What? You haven’t heard of pickleball? Have you been living under a marinated mushroom? According to the 2022 Sports & Fitness Industry Association (SFIA), there are 4.8 million people who play the game in the United States alone. It is the fasting growing sport in the country.

Until Larry and I retired, I myself had never heard about pickleball. Larry had been involved in sports his entire life—basketball, baseball, and track in his youth and running and cycling as an adult. When he turned 65, we both joined the local YMCA. While I took classes and swam laps in the Olympic-sized pool, Larry started playing the game with friends from Congregation Beth Shalom and other members of the Y.

Both competitive and athletic, Larry fell in love with the game immediately. He found camaraderie as well as the ability—to quote Jimmy Buffet—“to grow older but not up.”

When we moved to Florida, one of the conditions for where we would live was contingent upon having aerobic classes and a lap pool for me and having pickleball courts for Larry. We both found what we were looking for in our 55+ active adult community. Larry joined the Smashers and found players at his level. To make his life even better, Larry found the Summit County Pickleball Club, (“We play with altitude”) near where we rent in Colorado every summer.

Pickleball not only provided Larry with a great form of exercise but it also provided a social outlet. In Florida, the Smashers had dances and breakfasts; in Colorado, the players had picnics and cocktail parties.

As a matter of fact, it was the social aspect of “pb’ing” at 9100 feet that got my interest. Larry was playing the game at least four mornings a week, and he was meeting lots of people. I, on the other hand, spent my mornings either hiking by myself or with my granddog or, occasionally, swimming lonely laps in a pool that accepted Silver Sneakers. Maybe learning the game would help me become part of a community.

So one day, at my request, I asked Larry to take me onto the Colorado courts during a time set aside for beginners interested in trying the game. After giving me some of the basic rules, Larry gently lobbed me a ball; I hit it. Hey! This wasn’t so bad! Slow lob, hit. Slow lob.”I got this!” I thought

When he started hitting the balls to me at the normal rate of speed, however, I could barely hit it. Only 30 minutes into my private lessons, a slim, athletic couple came onto the court.

“We’d love some lessons, too!” they said. Larry quickly repeated some of the basics, and the two of them took to it like “white on rice.” At that point, they told us they had been playing tennis their whole lives, so this was an easy transition.Larry then suggested the four of us play a game together.

Now it was a completely different game. Fast lob, Marilyn miss. Fast lob, Marilyn miss. Soon Larry was covering both sides of our court to cover for me.

You have to understand that I wasn’t even close to hitting the ball. My lifetime lack of hand-eye coordination, exacerbated by vision problems brought on by age, resulted in my swinging at lots of air. The ball was usually two feet above or two feet below my pathetic paddle.

So I did what any normal, mature adult would do in that situation. I told Larry I didn’t want to play anymore, went back to our car, sat in the front seat, and cried.

“I can’t do it,” I told Larry after he finished his session with the two tennis pros. “I hate it! I can’t see the ball. I can’t hit the ball. I can’t even move in time. I’m done.”

I was. And I am. I am in the eighth decade of my life. Up until now, I had proven myself lousy at tennis and baseball and racketball and squash, I have now proved myself to be lousy at pickleball. The benefits of being part of a large group—there are at least 1000 members of Smashers—are totally outweighed by how much I hate trying to hit a stupid ball with a stupid paddle that may result in my breaking a stupid bone.

“You should try playing with us,” some friends have told me. “None of us play that well, and we won’t care if you’re not great at it.”

“No thanks,” I tell them. “I’d rather walk or swim or bike or do an exercise class.”

And after hearing about all my friends with pickleball-related injuries, I am happy to stick to what I am doing.None of them require hand/eye coordination. None of them are competitive, so I don’t have to always lose. Better yet, I won’t be the player that no one wants on their team. Yes, my short stint as a pickleball putz is over! From now on, my only pickle of choice is a Kosher one in a jar.