Savta, Off Duty

I was wedged under a tilted ladder, catching grapes my son was dropping down from the top of our grapevines, when my two-year-old granddaughter, watching nearby, called out:

"Savta. Water." Oy.
"Savta. Water."

I was just about to figure out how to unmesh myself from the ladder situation when my five-year-old grandson called out, "I'll get it, Savta."

And he took off.

That didn't sound right to me. How was he going to get his sister a drink? He'd have to find a cup, reach the sink, fill it (well, at least an inch) and somehow get it to her without spilling. This was a two-part Savta job, minimum.

I got myself untangled and ran into the house. (Well, I was running in my imagination.)

And there he was. One leg on a stool, his knee on the sink, leaning over the water filter with a little black paper coffee cup. He had figured it out.

I was about to exclaim, "Amazing! What a boy!" when I felt my eyes getting misty instead. So I just said, "Thank you, darling. What a good brother."

SUDDEN INDEPENDENCE

We sat down to play one of the games I'd invented. A few minutes later, he disappeared. Then he returned, wiping his hands on his pants. He'd gone to the bathroom by himself. And washed his hands. Without a reminder. Without a single "Savta, come."

Had I been fired? Not exactly. Just quietly downsized.

Where had the "Savta, help" gone? The "Savta, read me a book"? I realized a whole slew of cherished little-kid jobs were disappearing off my desk - the potty songs, the swing pushes, the running into my arms at preschool pickup, the booster seat buckle, the hand held down the street. Those small, unglamorous tasks are part of what binds a grandchild to each of us. And in one splash of filtered water, I'd been quietly promoted to Consultant. Emeritus. On Retainer.

I felt sad. Also, oddly, proud.

A few minutes later, we went out to the porch where my son was helping us build our sukkah. My grandson watched for a minute and announced, "I can help." Of course he could. Every little kid wants to help.

Then he thought about it. "I left my tools at home," he said. "But I'll be able to figure it out."

I looked at him differently. I actually believed him.

Then a fly started dive-bombing my head. "Don't worry, Savta," he said. "That's my pet fly. I brought him from home."

B"H. The job may have changed. The boy hasn't.

Show Me How You See the World: The Best Hour of Family Camp

I thought I knew what the highlight of Family Camp would be. Swimming in the Jordan River. Color War. Bingo for Prizes. Dinner under the stars.

I never imagined it would be thirty sheets of paper and a box of markers. The biggest surprise of the entire week turned out to be...our Family Art Exhibition.

About a month before Family Camp, I sent my children and grandchildren thirty simple drawing prompts. Draw your favorite animal… your family... your happiest memory... your favorite holiday. Draw yourself as a superhero. Draw your favorite sport.

Nothing fancy.

Truthfully, I wasn't looking for the next Picasso. (Although after seeing some of the artwork, I may have found one or two.) I simply wanted everyone - from my youngest grandchild to the oldest - to arrive at Family Camp already feeling like they belonged to one big family project.

As the month went by, pictures started arriving on my phone. "Look what I drew, Savta!"

Then something happened that I never expected. One evening, after Bingo for Prizes, instead of running off with their loot to play something else or heading to bed, the grandchildren came looking for paper and markers. Not because anyone told them to. Because they wanted to draw more pictures for the Exhibition.

They stayed up into the wee hours creating masterpieces. Or dragons. Or invisible superheroes. Or sports involving ironing boards.

Our Own Gallery

When Exhibition night arrived, we transformed a corner of the hotel lobby into our own little art gallery. Instead of organizing the pictures by artist, we displayed them by subject. Everyone's favorite animals together. Then everyone's happiest memories, everyone's families.

One by one, we wandered through our gallery. And that's when I understood something. I hadn't really asked them to draw pictures. Without realizing it, I had asked them, "Show me how you see the world."

And every single one answered differently.

One assignment was: Draw yourself as a superhero. Most drew themselves flying or showing amazing strength. One granddaughter handed me...a completely blank page. "What happened?" I asked. She grinned. "My superpower is invisibility."

Well...I laughed so hard I almost gave a Blue Ribbon to a blank piece of paper.

Another assignment: Draw your favorite holiday.

We admired beautiful pictures of Passover, Sukkot and Chanukah. Then my son picked up a drawing of a magnificent four-layer birthday cake. "What holiday is this?" he asked.

My granddaughter looked at him like the answer should have been perfectly clear. "My birthday. Obviously." You know what? She was right. Our birthday should be our favorite day.

Next: Draw your favorite sport. Soccer. Swimming. Basketball.

And then my daughter proudly showed us her pastel drawing. Blue sky. Three tiny stick figures, plus an ironing board. "What sport is THAT?" someone asked. "Skydive ironing."

We all laughed, but I looked it up. Apparently there really are people who jump out of airplanes carrying ironing boards and press clothes while falling through the sky.

Darlings, I don't know about you, but if I'm jumping out of an airplane, the wrinkles in my shirt are going to be the least of my worries.

One grandson decided that drawing thirty separate pictures was entirely too much work. So he cleverly squeezed almost every assignment onto one page. "That little dot is my dream house." "I couldn't draw my dog, Bingo, so I just wrote his name. And since my name starts with B, it also counts for the picture beginning with the first letter of my name. :-)"

I have to admit...his logic was flawless. One son did the same. He drew a landscape of mountains, river and trees. "My favorite animal is hiding in that dark spot." “Swimming is my favorite sport, but you can’t see me under the water.” “My favorite place is peaking out behind the trees.”

Then came one of my own pictures.

The assignment: Draw your happiest memory. I drew our family seated at the giant horseshoe-shaped table of Family Camp. The grandchildren crowded around.

Not one of them commented on the quality of the drawing. They each asked exactly the same question: "Which one is me?" "Where am I?"

I pointed. I pointed again. I kept pointing until every last grandchild had found his own face in the crowd around that table. Because children don't care whether a picture is beautiful. They want to know if they belong in it. And they do, every single one of them.

Finally...one picture stopped me in my tracks.

Envisioning Our Family

The assignment was simply: Draw your family. Most kids drew the people who live in their homes. 

One granddaughter titled hers, "My Family in 100 Years." She drew a picture frame filled with hundreds and hundreds of tiny circles. Not today's family. Tomorrow's. Children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren she hopes IY”H will one day fill her family tree.

Every picture in our gallery showed me how a child sees the world. But this one reminded me how far into the future a child can see. I looked at that drawing for a very long time. May Hashem bless her beautiful vision. May every one of those tiny circles become a real child, grandchild, great-grandchild, and beyond.

As the evening came to an end, we celebrated our exhibition with an ice cream reception.

I gathered every picture in a special binder. I’ll have to wait for the ones that were forgotten at home. Others have already announced they have more masterpieces to create. Apparently, our gallery is still accepting submissions.

I'm making them into a family book - not because every picture belongs in a museum, although a few probably do, but because one day these children will have grandchildren of their own. And I want them to remember not only what they drew...
...but how they once saw the world.