I MOVED! 

  

     I finally moved into a retirement facility.   Moving is something I have

experienced frequently, even learned to do it well.  After our first move from

Cincinnati, Ohio to the big beautiful State of North Carolina, my husband and I

 became old hands at this moving thing. That was good because we did it often.   

In North Carolina we not only learned quickly about the responsibilities and burdens of a

Rabbi and spouse, but along the way, we learned, quickly about parenting.

     By the time we got to North Carolina we understood that we could not make babies! 

We determined that we would adopt children, family life without them was

inconceivable.  Our entire family did not agree, but we had left our school days. We were

adults who needed to satisfy ourselves by making our own

choices.  If Erv was man enough to choose his lifelong calling and I was woman

enough to support and work with him, we were adult enough to decide about kids.

We moved fast.  "Too fast" said his mother "whatever you wish" said mine. We moved

to Winston-Salem in June 1949 on the heels of  Erv’s ordination. 

     January 1950, we brought Jeff home. He was eight months old and was ready to

stand up straight and tall.  What fun we had with this happy, giggling baby. 

The social worker told us he was fat, I had nightmares about his size.  He was chubby,

the way babies are supposed to be. But the night before his homecoming I was worried,

and anxious: was he elephantine, would he like us, maybe even learn to love us?  My

anxiety reached a fever pitch  and suddenly I was truly suffering.  My ache turned into

serious pain, we called a doctor: phantom labor pains, not to worry they would

vanish when I held my baby, and they did! Eighteen months later we brought Jeff’s sister

Judi home.  Our happy family was complete and it flourished.

     My intent when I sat down to write was to talk about moving, not about children. 

We moved about six times during our marriage of more than 62 years.  My

recent move to Seacrest Village is my last.  I have said frequently that if Seacrest

Village does not meet all my needs it remains the last stop.  It has to be the last time that I

sort through my  belongings to pick and choose what stays, what goes.  During the two

months I have been here, I have thought of many items that I failed to take with me. 

Not one is vitally important.  There are pots and pans that I loved using, some were

favorites, others were just pots and pans.  By now my favorites are about to become

precious to other people. I will learn to live without so many “things”.

     Yes, moving is hard to do. When depression hit, we moved from the city and its

luxurious apartment to the country home my grandfather had bought in 1905.  I learned

then  that as long as we were together, we were home!  That has sustained me.

     Things are different now. I have moved because my beloved has died and I must

truly make my own decisions.  One day recently, I awoke to the facts of my life:

I was alone and I was sick and tired of cooking for one.  All the short cuts, all the frozen

meals for one, the packaged dinners for one, all the advertising about the easy way to

cook for one person, failed to resonate for me, failed to entice or enhance my deeply

rooted loneliness.  So I moved to Seacrest Village.

   It is nothing like a dormitory.  I have my own living room, bathroom, bedroom and

no kitchen!  How great is that?  I have a frig in which I keep milk, juice, bread, cream

cream cheese and ice cream.  I fix (?) my own breakfast and depend on the chef at

Seacrest for the rest of my meals.  The food is good if not great, I would in fact, get 

fat on great food.  There are good people here and they seem happy to call me friend. 

I was not overwhelmed nor smothered.  We are all in the same boat and therefore we

understand one another.  We take turns listening because everyone has a story and

everyone here has the time to listen.   Our old, oft-told stories are new here and everyone

has lots of time to listen.    Moving is bad only when you leave loved ones behind. 

Moving, on the other hand can become a correction for loneliness and an antidote to

 “do-it-yourself” concepts.

And so we moved: from Cincinnati, to Winston-Salem, then from an apartment to a

house in Winston.  Then we moved to Scranton, Pennsylvania and from there to an

apartment in Westchester County, NY and then we bought a house, a pink house.  I was

told I looked pretty in pink!  From Westchester we moved to California to an apartment

in Encino, then to a house in Westlake Village and from there to San Diego.  In San

Diego County we lived in an apartment, then a house and finally I landed here at

Seacrest Village, comfortably ensconced, satisfied that Erv would agree, I made a good

decision.

  

  

  

A Visitor

A Visitor                            2/1/15                  Ag Herman

   She came to visit, adjusted the Venetian blinds and told me to put a sweater on my infant.  She was the wife of the founder of the congregation, fifty or sixty years earlier, I do not recall exactly when.  But by the time we crossed paths she was elderly, old to my 28 years.  She considered Erv and me, young, wet behind the ears,  “know-nothing” children.  She started from scratch with her instructions.  We lived on the first floor, strangers passed our door (and windows) constantly, old lady Shapiro was sure they were all concerned with how I lived my life.
   So, she tilted the blinds and insisted that I hide my baby from prying eyes with an oversized sweater.  I who had never worried about prying eyes, was given my first lesson regarding the behavior of the rebbitzan, the rabbi’s wife.  As the years progressed and Erv graduated from the small congregation in Winston-Salem, North Carolina to the larger one in Scranton, Pennsylvania, I was given another lesson concerning my behavior.
   This time I was walking in the downtown area of the city, weighed down with shopping bags when I met a member of the congregation.  “Oops, you better hide that bag from the Globe Store and bring The Scranton Dry Goods bag in front of it.  The Scranton Dry Goods is owned by a member of the congregation, it is the right place to shop; the Globe is not one of ours.
   So I was taught to shop with the congregation.  As the years evolved, I became comfortable in the skin of the rebbitzan and less controlled by the rules of the Sisterhood.  The Sisterhood was and probably still is, the female arm of the synagogue.  I knew the appropriate way to dress for the synagogue, my mother taught me that.  She said nothing about a hat.  I was vain about my pretty hair and never wanted to crush it down with a hat.  In winter and summer, I was hatless.  When it came time to go to temple, I asked my learned spouse a question: Is it mandated anywhere in Halacha that we women wear hats?  He told me that there was no ruling.  So I never wore a hat again after that first year.
   Many years later, Erv had the responsibility to substitute for a rabbi on sabbatical for three months.  When the rabbi and his spouse returned they found a change had taken place.  In astonishment, the rabbi’s wife said, “Look none of the women are wearing hats, that is terrible!  How did that happen?”   The answer came back swiftly “Ag Herman does not wear one and her husband represents the UAHC!  So, we don’t have to wear a hat either!”  And so it came about that the women of Westchester Reform Temple stopped wearing hats to Services.  Not a show of disrespect, simply a matter of choice.  And that, I believe, is what Reform Judaism is about.