ROSH HASHANAH REIMAGINED

I roamed the halls of Meer, Hechtman and Fleischman recently and thought about all of the people who have lived in our buildings and the impact they have left. How many holidays have been celebrated among friends?  How many lives well lived in laughter and tears…  I was not part of the lengthy past history of Jewish Senior Life, but I know the names of so many who have found goodness and joy in our apartments. So many have given to our agency with love, knowing their generosity pays forward for the appreciation they have felt.

A memory of my own past brushes over me. It was early autumn, September 27, 1956. The golden leaves danced down from the trees in a gentle breeze, whispering glimpses of the New Year to come. I was a bright-eyed 3-year-old. I clutched my mother’s hand tightly as we walked up the stone path to her childhood home in Peabody, Massachusetts. We had traveled there by car from Chicago. My father and big brother trailed behind us schlepping our luggage. As the front door opened, the scent of sweet apples and honey wafted through the air, mixing with the earthy aroma of freshly baked raisin challah.

“We’re here,” my mother called out excitedly. All my cousins rushed to squeeze us while they were waiting on the large open porch.  I can still recall the familiar hum of my aunts and uncles’ voices inside, interspersed with the joyous laughter of greetings to us. The dining table, covered in a starched white tablecloth, was adorned with flowers awaiting the holiday dishes, all the special foods told a story of love passed down through generations.

“Zayde and Buba are waiting for us,” my mother said with a warm smile. The bedroom door swung open, revealing Zayde, with his white hair and wire frame glasses. His suspenders held up his painter’s pants and his white shirt was not yet buttoned all the way. Zayde’s embrace was like a comforting hug that felt like home. He lifted me in the air and squeezed me tightly.  He said, “Buba said you can help her with the apples,” leading us inside. The living room was a cozy haven, filled with the soft glow of mirrors that reflected late afternoon sunshine. The walls were lined with photographs of family, capturing serious faces and memories of years past.

Buba, bustling about in her apron, looked up and beamed. “My sweet girls, come help me with the apples!” She spoke with a Russian accent and in Yiddish spoke to my mother. Then she motioned to a beautiful wooden bowl brimming with shiny, red apples, next to a jar of golden honey. “We need to dip them for a sweet new year.”

With eager hands, I held a slice of apple, its skin cool and smooth against my fingers. I watched as Buba and my mother carefully sliced each one, their knives gliding effortlessly through the fruit, revealing the crisp white flesh inside. Together, we dipped the slices into the honey, our laughter mingling with the warm chatter of family.  “May we have a year as sweet as this honey!” Buba exclaimed, and everyone chimed in, raising their apples high.

The dining table was a sight to behold, covered with a white tablecloth that my mother had embroidered with delicate flowers in her youth. A large circle shaped challah, symbolizes the cycle of the year, sat in the center, flanked by roasted chicken, kugel, applesauce and a tray of root vegetables, each dish steeped in tradition. The cousins and I sat eagerly, waiting for the blessings to begin.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow through the window, Zayde stood at the head of the table, his hands raised. “Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech HaOlam…” His deep voice resonated with solemnity, yet his eyes sparkled with joy. Each family member joined in, our voices weaving a tapestry of faith and hope.

After the prayers, they shared stories of the past year, recounting both joys and challenges. We listened intently as my cousins spoke of their adventures, each tale more fantastical than the last. I felt the warmth of family envelop me, a blanket of love that chased away any lingering fears of the unknown. As the meal concluded, Buba brought out a tray of golden honey cake. “This will ensure a sweet year for everyone,” she said, her eyes twinkling as she served each slice. The first bite was like a hug for the soul—soft, spiced, and utterly divine. I slid off my chair to join my cousins to play under the table.

Later, as the stars twinkled brightly in the night sky, all the family gathered outside for a moment of reflection. Zayde held a shofar, its ancient shape reminiscent of times long past. With a deep breath, he brought it to his lips, the sound echoing through the crisp night air—a call to awaken the spirit, to embrace the new beginnings ahead.

As the last notes faded, I closed my eyes, making a silent wish. I hoped for laughter, for love, and for the strength to carry these cherished moments into the future. Little did I know that my first grandson would be born on the same date, September 27, fifty-three years later.

Even as a young child, on that serene autumn night, surrounded by my family, I knew that Rosh Hashanah was more than just a holiday; it was a bridge connecting the past, present, and future, a celebration of life and faith that will forever echo in my heart.

As the New Year dawns, may your days be filled with sweetness, joy, and peace. May you and your families be surrounded by the warmth of each other, the laughter of friends, and the blessings of health and happiness. Here’s to new beginnings, cherished memories, and the promise of a new year filled with hope.

Wishing you a sweet new year ahead!

Shabbat Shalom