HERE'S TO HEARING!

I went to the Hearing Department of Hadassah College to have my hearing tested.

The doctor squinched up her nose and said, “Well, you would benefit from hearing aids, IF YOU WANT.”

Of course I don't want! Who wants hearing aids?

But then again, she said that poor hearing could lead to dementia. But poor dental care can lead to dementia. And lack of movement can lead to dementia. And this can, and that can. Apparently, EVERYTHING can lead to dementia.

I didn't mean to get hearing aids. I always heard my husband. He didn't hear me. It is frustrating for me. (He doesn't seem to mind.) So, I told him he must have his hearing checked.

He said, “I'm not going unless you go.”

I figured, okay, I'll get my hearing checked, because I REALLY NEED HIM TO GET HEARING AIDS.

We took the tests. My husband's results showed an age-related deterioration in his hearing. Not bad, but hearing aids would benefit him. Then they tested me.

They stopped in the middle of the test, and one of the testers asked, “Were you in an explosion, Mrs. Katz?”

EXPLOSION?! Of course not!

“Well, that's what the test shows.”

I looked at the graph coming out of the printer. There was a decline, but halfway down there was a straight line to the bottom of the page, making a sharp V. I told the testers there must be a mistake.

“Mrs. Katz, we have tested you thoroughly for more than an hour. There is no mistake.”

Well, I can't think of any explosion. Maybe some booms from music that was too loud at a wedding or bar mitzvah, maybe a blast or two in earphones at a recording studio, but no explosion.

In the doctor's office, I sat with my husband, not believing that I needed hearing aids. I never felt that I couldn't hear. But I agreed to try them. The doctor put them in my ears. Suddenly I was in a submarine.

“Hellllloooo! Hellllllooooo!”

The clock was ticking so loudly, I thought the entire college must hear it. “You'll get used to it,” the doctor said.

I did tell her one thing, though. “I will NOT wear them when I'm dancing!”

She reluctantly agreed, “Okay, but I really suggest you wear them all the time.”

“The last thing I want to worry about is jiggling my hearing aids off when tap dancing!”

(From the look on her face, she knew she wasn't going to win on that one.) So, that was that. She asked me to try them seriously for two weeks, and then we'll reassess.

SLUUUURRRRP

Last night I wore them to a meeting. The woman next to me was SLURPING HER WATER.

“SLUUUUUURP! SLURRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!”

WHEN DID PEOPLE GET SO ANNOYING?! When I got hearing aids.

Meanwhile, my husband is in love. He goes to a shiur. He hears everything. Every conversation. He doesn't miss a word. He sits there smiling, watching the news on his phone. (And I am sure there is nothing to smile about.)

I'm happy for him - really. And, I guess I'll just have to stay away from water bottles and clocks.

Here's to hearing!

IT TAKES A VILLAGE... TO MAKE AN APPLE CAKE

On the eve of Sukkot, I was inspired to make a cake.

The fact that I had never made one before and had no recipe did not deter me.

Perhaps I had been hypnotized by all those clips on my phone that proclaim, "You just add this, just add that, just do this, and voilà! A delicious cake!"

Plus, my granddaughters had come to my house, spotted three bananas on the counter, and announced, "Three bananas! We'll make a cake!"

Chic-choc, they did.

So when I saw three apples on my counter, I thought, "Three apples! I'll make a cake!"

Smush the apples. Add some flour and eggs. Presto! Cake! Except it wasn't cake. It was apple rubber.

I began to wonder whether I could market it as a healthy snack for mothers looking for something their children could chew on for hours.

Two weeks later, I told my friend Frumi about my misadventure. "This is ridiculous," she declared. "I'm going to teach you how to bake a cake."

It didn't seem to matter that she was in America and I was in Israel. Frumi was going to rescue me from my baking incompetence, international boundaries notwithstanding.

She sent me a list of ingredients. I thought, "This will be a snap."

Well, think again. The first sign of trouble came with the first instruction.

"Take out your Bundt pan." Bundt pan? What is a Bundt pan?  I turned to my husband. "Do you know what a Bundt pan is?" "I have no idea," he said. Neither of us could even spell it.

We stood in the kitchen, two people with a combined 100-plus years of life experience, staring at the cabinets as if one might confess.

I wrote back to Frumi, "What is that?" She sent me a picture.

"WHO has that?" I asked. "EVERYONE," Frumi replied.

Everyone but me.

Fortunately, my daughter Bati not only knew what a Bundt pan was, she actually owned one! She promised to bring it over.

Then I got to the measurements. Half a teaspoon of this. A quarter of a teaspoon of that.

I called Bati again. "If I take a regular teaspoon and fill half of it, or a quarter of it, is that GOOD?"

"Ema, you need measuring spoons. I'll bring those, too."

I own spoons. I own many spoons. Apparently, none of them measure.

That morning, my granddaughter Arielli came over and peeled and cut the apples for me. I sent a picture of the pieces to Frumi. The pieces were too big.

Just then, my husband walked in. "Don't worry. I'll dice them for you."

Izzy still had no idea what a Bundt pan was, but he knew exactly what to do with a knife. And he did.

It Takes a Village to Make an Apple Cake.

And we hadn't even put the thing in the oven!

Finally, the moment arrived. With Frumi guiding me, I made my cake.

Well, let me clarify. Frumi guided. I measured. I mixed. I followed instructions. I tried very hard not to use my instincts. My instincts had, after all, given us apple rubber.

And eventually, there was a cake.

It wasn't picture-perfect like Frumi's. It didn't come out of the Bundt pan particularly gracefully, either. And Frumi hadn't told me to sprinkle sugar on top, although I suspect that even if she had, the sugar wouldn't have solved my problem with the pan.

But then something extraordinary happened. My husband and the kids tasted the cake and exclaimed, loudly and excitedly: "WOW! THIS TASTES LIKE A REAL CAKE!"

A REAL CAKE!

I don't think the judges on The Great British Bake Off have ever delivered a compliment quite like that. And my five-year-old grandson asked for MORE.

I sat there admiring my not-very-beautiful cake, quietly smiling every time somebody reached for another piece. I thought it was delicious, too.

And I couldn't help feeling proud. Not because I'd made a perfect cake - I hadn't. Not because I'd suddenly become a baker. Let's not get carried away.

But because I'd tried something new, and my family had helped me get there.

They say it takes a village to raise a child.

Apparently, it also takes a village to make an apple cake.

A friend who believes you can do something you don't believe you can do yourself. A daughter who knows what a Bundt pan is. A granddaughter who peels the apples. A husband who dices them. And a little boy who asks for more.

B"H, life is good.

And apparently, so is my apple cake!

All I Know, I Got from a Fifth Grader

It’s been years since I’ve watched a TV game show, but I always wondered how those contestants were so genius-y. They knew all these random details that had me scratching my head. I’d heard that game show questions were generally on a fifth- or sixth-grade level, so HOW did the rest of us manage to get through elementary school without knowing the answers?

Well, this past Shabbat, as I listened to the reading of Bereishit (Genesis), the first portion of the Torah, I suddenly found myself thinking, “Biblical Waters for 100 points!”

And popping into my head were the names of the rivers that flowed out of the Garden of Eden. Pishon. Gichon. Chidekel. Prat. I could answer those questions in my sleep.

Actually, I DID answer them in my sleep 36 years ago. My son Moshie was studying for a Second Grade Bible Quiz, and I was right there with him. How many years was Joseph in prison? Name the sons of Jacob in order of their birth. He drilled Biblical facts day and night, and so did I.

As the Torah reading continued, my mind wandered through the many things I know today, thanks to Moshie and his siblings. And I began thinking about how much I have learned over the years from my children’s elementary school education.

Lessons Learned

I may not know much about Gemara, but I do know the beginning of Bava Metzia. I can even translate the words in that familiar singsong melody used in yeshivot throughout the world. Thanks to Micha’s fifth-grade studies, I am practically an expert.

“Aileh metzios shelooo… These findings are hiiiis. V’aileh chayiv lehachris… And these he must annouuuunce.”

If anyone finds a lost item, I know exactly what he should do with it. Who needs a law degree?

Natah was a wonderful student, but what his teachers loved, and what I learned so much from, was his habit of beginning every term paper by thanking the teacher or rabbi who had assigned it. Who wouldn’t look favorably upon a paper that begins with a little appreciation? Natah may have been the student, but I was taking notes!

I can also tell you a thing or two about the laws of slave ownership, thanks to a book I read with my then-fifth-grade son Mati. It was Ithamar by Marcus Lehmann, and what a thrilling story!

A scheming slave frames his master’s son for rebelling against Rome, and the son is shipped off as a galley slave. Years later, he returns home to find his father dead and the slave in possession of everything. But the son is allowed to choose just one possession to reclaim.

He chooses the slave. And since whatever a slave owns belongs to his master, that one choice gets him everything back.

It was Mati’s and my favorite book back then, and I still think about it today. Apparently, I even came away with a little Roman history and property law along the way!

Bati’s elementary school education gave me something else entirely: a love of poetry.

Her wonderful English teacher had the children memorize classic poems, and some of those words have stayed with me for decades. I may not remember all of Walt Whitman’s “O Captain! My Captain!”, but I can still recite the beginning:

“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.”

And Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” still lives somewhere in my head:

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

I can’t promise the rest, but I’ll recite it with great confidence.

My children have grown, B”H, but apparently my education is far from over.

I’m now something of an expert on Hiroshima, thanks to one granddaughter’s term paper. I also know quite a bit about how people imagined the future back in 1951, thanks to another grandchild’s class project. Between the two, I’m now an expert on exactly six years of the twentieth century.

Reading, Writing, Arithmetic

And then there are the books! I have rediscovered, time and again, the wonderful world of children’s literature through last-minute book reports and reading projects. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Trumpet of the Swan, Charlotte’s Web… I get to revisit these classics, share them with my grandchildren, and discover all over again why they have captured the hearts of generations of children.

I’d like to report that my mathematical skills have also been sharpened to at least a sixth-grade level. Alas, I must confess that most of that knowledge has disappeared into some dark corner of my brain, never to be seen again.

So, if you ever see me on a TV game show, please don’t expect me to calculate percentages or figure out how many watermelons Johnny sold if he started with 100 and gave away four at every stop. Frankly, I’m more worried about Johnny’s business model.

But ask me about the rivers of Eden. Or the sons of Jacob. Or what to do with a lost object. Or a classic poem. Biblical Waters for 100, please. I might just surprise you... because while I thought I was helping my children with their homework all those years ago, I was getting an education of my own.

And the tuition? A whole lot of love, a few bedtime stories, a stack of schoolbooks, and the privilege of being their mother and their Savta.

Not bad for a fifth-grade education.

Packing Away the Sukkah

Sniff sniff.

I hate packing away my sukkah. I love my sukkah.

It isn't fancy. It isn't one of those gorgeous sukkot you see in magazines, with matching decorations and coordinated colors. Mine is more like a family museum.

The Katz Family Museum of Childhood.

It has been collecting exhibits for more than 40 years. The security system is a safety pin.

Every year I open boxes of old drawings, photographs and decorations I haven't seen for twelve months. And every year, I remember.

The first piece of art I ever hung is now an antique. A torn green plate with an apple and a little jar of honey. It is almost 45 years old. I know it's torn. I know the colors have faded. If I saw it in a store, I wouldn't buy it. But I can't imagine my sukkah without it.

Because the little boy who made it is almost 47 years old. Today he spends his days in the Knesset, fighting for veterans whose wounds are not always visible.

But when I look at that plate, I don't see a man who is almost 47. I see a little boy handing me his artwork. “Ema, this is for our Sukkah.”

And I put it up. And I kept it. For 45 years.

There are dozens and dozens like it. “Ema, this is for your Sukkah.” “Savta, this is for your Sukkah.”

Preschool cards. Drawings. Paintings. Things made from construction paper, crayons, glue and whatever else a preschool teacher could find. Some are beautiful.

Some are... well... you have to know the artist personally to understand what you're looking at. I love them all.

Every one is laminated or contact papered. Every one hangs from a safety pin. Preserved for the ages, or at least until the next strong wind.

Laminated Love

And then there are two cards that are different. They are beautiful Hallmark cards from my dearest mother, z”l. Her words are blessings for our family. 

She is no longer here to say those words to me. But every year, I hang those cards in my sukkah. And when I look at them, my mother is still with me. Her handwriting. Her love. Her blessings.

One more generation hanging among all the drawings and paintings of the generations that came after her.

I have a golden Jerusalem made by my golden girl, who now works in Jerusalem.

I have the Old City, drawn in crayon by a little cutie who is now a captain, protecting our country.

I have a lulav and etrog that is 32 years old. The little boy who made it is 43. He is a rabbi. I think he is still pretty proud of that artwork.

And there are the preschool pictures of children who are now in high school. I remember their teensy hands giving me their creations. Now I look at the teenagers and wonder how on earth the years got away from me.

There are photographs, too.

For the ushpizin, I once dressed up seven of my grandsons as our holy guests and photographed them.“Little Avraham” is graduating yeshiva high school this year. Three of those little boys have already had their bar mitzvahs.

And there they hang, frozen in time.

Except, of course, they aren't frozen at all. They grew. They became themselves.

That is what my sukkah has become. Not just a place to eat. Not just a place to invite guests. It's a family history book. Except the pages hang from safety pins.

Every year I add a piece or two. Every year I say, “Oh, look at this!” And every year I put it all back up.

The Museum Closes

And then comes the part I don't like. I take down the decorations. The table disappears. The lights come down. The museum closes its doors for another year.

Sniff sniff.

But maybe I don't really put the memories away. Maybe I just put the decorations away. Because the children are still here. 

The little boy of the green plate is still here, just a grown man. The little girl who drew Jerusalem is still here, just working in it. The captain, the rabbi, the seven ushpizin... still here. Just taller.

And my mother is still here, too. Her blessings are still hanging on my Sukkah wall.

The chagim are over. The dishes are going back into the cabinets. The leftovers are almost gone. Regular life is beginning again.

But maybe this is regular life now. Making games for my grandchildren. Finding time to see them. Taking online classes, because at 70 I have decided there is still more to learn.

Finishing that book that has been sitting on my desk for years. Planning this year's “Dames of the Dance,” which is about Rebirth.

And so I tape up the last box. I write on it, in big letters: MUSEUM. REOPENS NEXT SUKKOT.

And somehow, as always, one safety pin ends up in my pocket.

B"H.

I'll find it in January, and smile.

Until next Sukkot. ❤️