Madeline “Madge” Bindamin, my husband Andy’s mother, was a magazine editor in New York during the 1940s and later became a literary agent. She edited pulp magazines such as Amour and Private Detective Stories and even wrote a radio play. We know these details because her grandchildren, now in their thirties, searched for her name online and discovered not only her professional accomplishments but also the wedding announcement her parents placed in a Westchester newspaper when she married Andy’s father, Richard Nickelhoff.
On a rainy Sunday in June, Andy’s family gathered around our dining room table in West Bloomfield to bring that radio play back to life. The cast included Andy’s three children, Laura, Jack, and Sam. Jack’s fiancée, Hailie and Sam’s wife, Sophie, joined as well. The occasion came just one day after the second birthday of Andy’s granddaughter (and Madge and Richard’s great-granddaughter), Charlotte (“Charlie”).
I was assigned the role of Peter, the angry artist. Between reading my lines and playing with Charlie, helping her to stack colorful building blocks in the corner of the room, I witnessed something quite remarkable. Madge’s presence seemed to come alive among us, especially when Andy brought Madge’s photograph downstairs and placed it on the table, as though she had quietly joined the gathering herself.
There is something magical about reading the words of someone who came before us. Letters, journals, recipes tucked into drawers, old newspaper clippings, and forgotten plays allow us to meet our loved ones all over again. For one afternoon, Madge was no longer simply a name in a family tree. She seemed to come alive, witty, thoughtful, creative, and very much part of the afternoon.
As I reflected on that, I found myself thinking about our residents at JSL.
Every day, I walk past photographs displayed in apartments and hallways. Wedding portraits. Military uniforms. Family vacations. Babies perched on grandparents’ laps. There’s a lifetime behind every one of those pictures, a story waiting to be told.
How often do we stop and ask, “Tell me about this photograph,” or “What was your mother like?” or simply, “Remember when…?”
Those two words, remember when, have the power to transport us. They invite laughter, sometimes tears, and almost always many emotions and connection. They remind us that every resident has lived a life filled with adventures, accomplishments, challenges, friendships, and love. Those stories are treasures, not only for children and grandchildren, but for all of us who are privileged to hear them.
Some of my favorite moments are sitting around a table with family, sharing memories of the people who shaped our lives. I suspect many of our residents have stories that deserve to be read aloud, retold, and celebrated just as Madge’s play was. What a gift it is when children, grandchildren, friends, and caregivers share in keeping those memories alive.
Our tradition teaches us that we honor those who came before us by remembering them, not only on anniversaries or at Yizkor, but in the stories we tell, the values we pass along, and the love that continues to ripple through future generations.
This Shabbat, let’s take a few extra moments to look through an old photo album with someone you love. Ask about the faces in the pictures. Listen to a favorite story, even if you’ve heard it many times before. Someday, those stories will become a wonderful inheritance we leave behind for those who follow us.
May the memories of those we love continue to bless us. May their stories bring us laughter and comfort, and may their lives inspire goodness for generations to come.
Shabbat Shalom
