Visiting Mrs. Louie

By Susan Esther Barnes

Periodically, I visit a woman in her 80’s who doesn’t get out as much as she used to, since she is now confined to a wheelchair. It’s hard for me to describe how I feel about going on these visits; it’s complicated. She always seems happy to see me, but she has friends and a daughter nearby, and I don’t see how a visit every once in a while from me can really matter. On the other hand, I know my Grandmother, may her memory be a blessing, would approve, because in some ways it is reminiscent of my visits to Mrs. Louie.

When we were kids, my sister and I used to visit our Grandmother and her brother, Uncle Mitch, may his memory be a blessing, for about a month every summer. Grandma and Uncle Mitch lived in an apartment in San Francisco. In the summer, they spent about half the week in their apartment, and long weekends in Felton, where Uncle Mitch had a part-time job as a courier and caretaker for what we called “the lodge” (interesting story there, but that’s for another time).

Periodically, when we were in San Francisco, Grandma would send us to the apartment across the hall to visit Mrs. Louie. Mrs. Louie was about Grandma’s age, and once when I asked why we went to visit her, I think Grandma said something vague about Mrs. Louie being lonely because her family and most of her friends had died.

Sometimes visiting Mrs. Louie was a little boring, and I remember she told us some of the same stories numerous times, but I don’t remember particularly disliking our visits with her. It had a feel of normalcy, like it was no big deal, but, on the other hand, I still remember it more than thirty years later, so there must have been more to it than that.

I remember I liked how animated Mrs. Louie got when she told us about the raccoons she and her husband used to feed where they used to live, and how sorry she felt for the people who bought the house after them and who probably wondered why so many raccoons showed up in the evening demanding dinner.

Similarly, when we were in Felton, periodically Grandma would take us down the hill to visit Mr. and Mrs. Wertheimer. I didn’t have the words for it then, but now I know the Wertheimers were morbidly obese. Each of them had a special piece of furniture to recline on, sort of like a couch with a raised part for their upper body, since they were too heavy to sit on regular furniture. Every year at Passover when we talk about eating while reclining, it reminds me of the Wertheimers’ couches.

I don’t remember anyone ever mentioning the Wertheimer’s weight. I don’t think it ever occurred to me to ask about it. As with Mrs. Louie, I didn’t particularly look forward to visiting the Wertheimers, but it wasn’t something I tried to avoid. Talking with them was like talking with any other grown-ups; it was just part of life.

As I got older, I encountered people who spoke down about people who were elderly or overweight. Even now, I know otherwise good-intentioned people who for some reason talk to the elderly in a different manner than they use with other people, almost as if they were talking to children. I never understood that. As far as I could tell from visiting Mrs. Louie and the Wertheimers, elderly and overweight people are just like everyone else. They aren’t more or less smart, or lazy, or interesting. They are just people.

It wasn’t until after Grandma died that I was mature enough to wonder why she made sure we visited Mrs. Louie and the Wertheimers every year. Maybe it was just because she was being nice to them. Clearly, they didn’t get out much, and didn’t get many visitors. I don’t think it was only because she liked visiting them herself; she could have done that without us.

I also came to wonder whether she was doing it for us rather than them. I wonder whether she was teaching us the value of having compassion for people who are lonely. I wonder if she planned for us to learn to see elderly and overweight people as people who are just like everyone else. I wonder whether, if I were given a chance to ask her why we made these visits, she would look at me in surprise and say, “It’s what we do.”

Judaism Creating Connections

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Friday night during services Rabbi Lezak told two stories about how living in Israel means living in an inter-connected community. The first one, here, talks about how the plight of Gilad Shalit, the Israel soldier who has been in captivity for three years, feels personal to all Israelis, since all of them have family members who were or are in the military.

The second story, here, is an amazing true story about the woman who is the mother of the first soldier killed in Cast Lead, who goes to a concert and by chance (or perhaps an act of God) meets a couple who named their baby after her fallen son.

To some extent these stories are possible because Israel is such a tiny country, where everyone (with some exceptions) sends their children to military or other national service. These stories, combined with something else that happened at services Friday night, got me thinking about how the practice of Judaism itself helps to create these connections.

One of the situations Judaism is particularly sensitive about is the death of a loved one. There are many customs and rituals that surround this event, and many of them create and rely on community connections. When a mourner returns home from the graveyard, he or she is not allowed to eat his or her own food. Rather, the community is expected to, and in fact bears the responsibility of, bringing food to the mourner. This not only relieves the mourner of having to think about mundane acts like grocery shopping and cooking when just walking across the room may feel like a monumental act, but it also makes sure the mourner is not alone during this critical time.

In addition, the mourner is to say the Mourner's Kaddish on a regular basis throughout the first eleven months after their loved on has died. And this prayer may only be said when there are at least ten Jews present. Again, this serves to ensure the mourner is surrounded by members of his or her community during the first year of mourning.

After the first year has passed, we say the Mourner's Kaddish for the anniversary of the loved one's death, called the Yarzheit. When worshippers come to services on Friday night they are handed a program that contains various bits of information, and on the back is a list of those in the congregation who have died recently as well as the names of those who are having their Yarzeheit.

On Friday night, I was sitting beside a couple, when another couple sat behind us. The woman next to me was looking at the Yarzheit list, and she turned to the couple behind us. She pointed at the list and said, "I see this person on the list with the same last name as you. Is this your father?"

"No," they replied, "That is our son."

"How old was he?" asked the woman.

"22."

"Oh, I didn't know."

And thus another connection was created, because when you know a couple has lost a son, an incredible tragedy in itself, and further learn the son died so young, it cannot help but create an understanding, a bond, from the acknowledgement that these people have walked through the fire and have the bravery to carry on.

And it strikes me this is one of the ways Judaism seeks to connect us. Yarzheit not only serves to comfort the mourner, but its public nature gives us the opportunity to ask the questions that bind us together, like "Who was she?" "What is your favorite memory about him?" and to make the statements that bind us together, like, "I remember him" and "I miss her too."

Remembering Grandma

By Susan Esther Barnes

This week I finished taking a class series on walking people through the process of dying, as well as visiting people in mourning. On the last night of class, Rabbi Lezak asked us to tell stories of a time when either someone visited us while we were in mourning, or a time when we visited a mourner.

The first thing I thought was I’ve never received a visit while I was in mourning. We come from a small family, and both my grandfathers died before I was born. The only family members who have died in my lifetime were my two grandmothers and my two Great Uncles. In no case did anyone come to our house to comfort us after their deaths.

The next thing I thought about was how, after my father’s mother’s funeral, we gathered for lunch at the apartment she had shared with her brother, my Great Uncle Mitch. At some point during lunch my father’s wife Sonia said, “One story I remember about Pearl is – “ but Uncle Mitch cut her off. He would not permit anyone to talk about Grandma. I don’t remember anyone in my family talking about Grandma after that day. Whenever I think about that lunch, I feel like I was cheated. How many stories about Grandma would I have heard if Uncle Mitch had let us talk about her? What would I have learned about her that I will never know?

Last summer, I said the Mourner’s Kaddish for the 25th anniversary of Grandma’s death. As far as I know, it was the first time anyone had said Kaddish for her since her funeral. She was too strong a force in this world to be forgotten easily. She is still a positive force in my life. So although I can’t go back to that lunch to try to convince Uncle Mitch to let us speak, here are the stories I want to preserve about her.

Grandma was about five feet tall, in her 80’s, and bent over from osteoporosis. Her whole body shook all the time, like Katherine Hepburn’s does now. When I asked her why she shook like that, she told me a rat suddenly jumped out at her when she was a girl, and it scared her so badly she’d never been able to stop shaking.

Anyone who knew Grandma would immediately know her rat story was a complete fabrication. She might look small and frail, but she was a warrior. She was a woman of action. Nobody would believe something as insignificant as a rat would scare her for long. When she was living in Hungary and Hitler was rising to power, she went to see him speak so she could size him up for herself. She didn’t know German, but what she saw and heard alarmed her. Rather than cowering in fear, she gathered up her husband and son (my father), and got the heck out of Dodge. They would not be among the six million killed.

Grandma was the embodiment of unconditional love. She was a refuge and a protector. That doesn’t mean she never got mad at us. When my sister and I got into trouble, boy, would we know it. Just the look on her face would make the bravest person back off fast. No sane person would ever cross her twice.

She taught me that when it comes for sticking up for what is right, size doesn’t matter. She regularly walked to the Opportunity Shop in her neighborhood, where she volunteered raising money for Israel. She never learned to drive, but she lived in San Francisco, knew all the Muni routes, and had no trouble getting wherever she wanted to go. When she got on a bus and found all the seats were taken, she would stand in the middle of the aisle, look down the length of the bus, and announce in a loud voice hardly impeded by her small shaking body, “As a rule, it used to be that when an old lady got on the bus, a gentleman would give her his seat!” Immediately, a half dozen shame-faced people would leap to their feet and offer her their place. Some of them were so embarrassed they never sat down again even after they realized they could. My sister and I got some good seats this way.

Aside from her unconditional love, the best gift Grandma gave me was a sense of connection to my Jewish heritage. Although we grew up in a secular home, Grandma consistently made sure to write “Happy Hanukah” on the presents we unwrapped at Christmas. She had a hanukiah in her living room year round, and a Jewish calendar in the kitchen. If we wanted a snack, in her home matzo was always available. These may seem like small things, but as I was growing up, whenever I heard someone say the only way to get to Heaven was though Jesus I knew it wasn’t true because Grandma wasn’t Christian and there was no way a fair and decent God would, for even a moment, consider keeping her out.

So this is how I remember Grandma. Every year, from now on, I will be saying Kaddish for the anniversary of her death. And from time to time I will wear something that has Tweetie Bird on it. Because, like Grandma, to the uninitiated Tweetie Bird may appear to be small and helpless, but anyone who knows anything knows Tweetie, like Grandma, is well capable of taking care of himself.

For Pearl Singer, may her memory be a blessing.

A Zero Sum Game

By Susan Esther Barnes

I remember, when I was a teen and I felt like my life was a mess, I thought that somehow each of is allotted only a certain amount of happiness in life, and that if we are happier in part of our life, we’ll necessarily be less happy in another part. So I remember making a deal with God, saying, “Ok, things suck right now. Go ahead and let the first part of my life be awful, because I know later on it’ll all balance out, and I’d rather be unhappy now and happy when I’m old, than the other way around.”

Over the last several years, as I experienced large changes in my life and everything seemed to be getting exponentially better, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Things can’t really stay this good for long,” I thought, but then I’d also think, “On the other hand, most likely I’m in the second half of my life now, so maybe now I finally get to enjoy all the happiness I ‘paid’ for in my youth.”

During services this morning, I kept thinking about the man who recently told me he’s looking for a good way to kill himself. I kept thinking, “My life is so good right now, in so many ways, and his isn’t. If only I could take some part of my happiness and give it to him. I have more than I need; it would be worth it to have a little less if it would help him.”

Then suddenly it dawned on me: That isn’t the way happiness works. The more good feelings and caring I have shared with others over the last few years, the more happiness and caring has flowed back to me. It’s like throwing a little yeast into dough. Sprinkle some around, and before you know it, it starts expanding. When I try to give this distressed man some of my caring and happiness, I don’t have less. I have more. For the first time in my life I finally understand it’s not a zero sum game.

Trying to Save a Life

Because I spend a lot of time standing in front of the synagogue greeting everyone who approaches, I meet a lot of people. A good number of them have become my friends, some are acquaintances, and some have faces I recognize but I’d have trouble putting a name to them.

The other day, one of these acquaintances responded to the question, “How are you?” by saying, “I’m looking for a good way to kill myself. Do you know a good way?” I told him I hope he won’t do that, and that a lot of people would be upset if he did, but that didn’t seem to be enough. I asked a rabbi for advice, and was told to try the local suicide prevention hotline.

Calling the suicide prevention hotline was a little surreal. The voice of the person who answered was very soft and calm. In fact, it was so soft and calm, I had to switch to a better phone so I could hear what the man was saying. In addition, he put me on hold a few times, which gave me the impression he was a new person just learning the ropes, and therefore he had to confer with his trainer from time to time even though what I was calling about wasn’t particularly complicated.

At any rate, the suicide prevention person suggested I try to find out how serious the person was with regard to his comment about killing himself. He also suggested I try to find out why he was considering that option.

I found the man’s phone number and address in the phone book, and gave him a call. I told him I was worried about him, and wanted to know how serious he was. He told me, very matter-of-factly, that he was not sure he was going to do it, but he was thinking about it, and was looking for a good way to do it. “Something not too messy,” he said.

I reiterated that I hoped he wouldn’t kill himself, and I asked him why he was thinking about it. He told me about some of the frustrations in his life, and ended by saying he felt like he wasn’t any use to anyone anymore, including himself. I was able to interest him in a meeting on Sunday, so I have some reason to believe he won’t kill himself before then. In the meantime, I’m looking for more ways to help him get involved in the local community, so he can see that he’s needed and has value.

I understand intellectually that I’m not responsible for saving this man’s life, but if I can help him add some value to it, and he sticks around a little longer because of it, it would still be a relief.

Can a Pony Tail Save the World?

At services on Friday night there were two women with long hair sitting toward the front of the room. It was hot, and both women wanted to put their hair up, but neither had a pony tail holder. One woman managed to put her hair up with a paper clip. The other braided her hair, but the braid fell out. Then she tried to tie it into a knot, but that came out, too.

Then, a woman sitting behind them dug into her bag and found a pony tail holder. She could have just handed it to the woman in front of her, but instead she gently took hold of the woman's hair and made it into a pony tail for her. She did a remarkably good job, too, considering she's the mother of men, so I imagine she doesn't have much practice putting up other people's hair. Nevertheless, she understood the situation, and made sure to fashion it in such a way that the hair was held well off the other woman's neck, allowing the air to circulate comfortably.

I believe there's a midrash that says every day God sends out an angel to destroy the earth, but then God sees an act of loving kindness from one person toward another, and calls the angel back. Putting aside the issue of a God who can't make up his/her mind, and an incredibly slow angel, there's something I like about the notion that even one small act of loving kindness can save the world.