Children of Israel
Tonight's seder wasn't one for the books. As far as memories go, it won't be one I will cherish, or look back on fondly. I won't hold it up as an example of the wonderful things we do at Chai Point -- although, considering what we have to work with, I suppose it could have been much worse -- and I won't celebrate it as "how wonderful that we got to spend it with Danny," because, in fact, there were at least two other ways in which we could have celebrated with him that might have been more meaningful. Or at least, more palatable. He, it seems, could not have cared less for the whole thing. It made little to no impression on him. There were moments when Passover seemed to seep through, but, for the most part, he was unimpressed. That his son was there with him, well, that too was a joy for a relatively short period of time. Mostly, he wanted to know when we were going to eat. He didn't care that it was part of a seder. Had we told him we were skipping the seder and going out for Chinese, he would have been delighted.
Some of the residents and guests seemed to enjoy themselves.Some clearly did not like the rabbi's style. He is a sweet man, and we all felt that his delaying the start of his own seder so he could do our seder was sad for him, and not especially good for us. You could tell he needed to get through ours in record time to get to his. You could tell he was trying to accommodate what he had been told Chai Point residents like in order to make it their seder, not his. It was not orthodox, or reform, or conservative. But -- and here is where it gets sticky for me, for I know he will come to me in a few days and ask for my critique -- the one thing you don't do with a bunch of hungry seniors, and guests who worked all day and may have to work tomorrow as well, the main thing I will have to criticize in order to be honest... he sermonized. He threw in a sermon here, a sermon there. And then, dear lord, he committed a seder sin. For what does seder mean? It means order. And he went out of order. No no no.
And then you have one resident demanding you go back and do the important step you skipped.
And another resident insisting you do the song you just sang in English over, but do it in Hebrew.
And another saying, you're talking too much rabbi, cut it short.
And another saying, why is he skipping around so much?
Well, of course he is, he isn't going to do every page, you don't want him to, you want him to finish tonight, don't you?
There were none of the smells of Passover that I miss. None of the foods either... no kugels, no overstuffed plates teeming with mama's recipes, or tante's recipes, or my sister's latest creation, or my own magnificent knaidels. Last year's seder at Debbie's house, so warm and welcoming, the only place I have been to seder that's as warm as family without being family is a packed-away memory for now, along with my family memories. My mental scrapbook of my children searching for the afikomen and bargaining with their father -- oy, what lousy bargainers my kiddies were -- compete with thoughts of how I'd like to do Passover with my grandchildren, to make it more fun, now that I've learned so much more about the process.
Passover seders with my grandfather, who followed it verbatim from the God of Maxwell House, plus the addition of the Yiddish drinking song he threw in, was never a joy, but my cousin Elaine and I always had fun in our own way. We lobbied to have sleepovers that week, one of the few times during the year we got to see each other, and either I would sleep over in Brooklyn while she was visiting or she would come to Valley Stream with me and stay there. During the seder we were not allowed to make a sound, nor nibble a morsel. It was very strict! We sat at the "women and children's table" down at the end, not realizing it was really the best spot because you could get up and disappear into the kitchen to "help." Grandpa sat on the couch at the head of the table, propped up like a king with pillows to recline on. There was no "interactive" participation. No one said "what Passover means today." There was no orange on the seder plate, no discussion of slavery today, no current events at all. Which, considering how political Grandpa Sam was, in actually very surprising.
I think, today, Grandpa would lead a very different seder.
There's more from tonight. But it will be a different post.
Some of the residents and guests seemed to enjoy themselves.Some clearly did not like the rabbi's style. He is a sweet man, and we all felt that his delaying the start of his own seder so he could do our seder was sad for him, and not especially good for us. You could tell he needed to get through ours in record time to get to his. You could tell he was trying to accommodate what he had been told Chai Point residents like in order to make it their seder, not his. It was not orthodox, or reform, or conservative. But -- and here is where it gets sticky for me, for I know he will come to me in a few days and ask for my critique -- the one thing you don't do with a bunch of hungry seniors, and guests who worked all day and may have to work tomorrow as well, the main thing I will have to criticize in order to be honest... he sermonized. He threw in a sermon here, a sermon there. And then, dear lord, he committed a seder sin. For what does seder mean? It means order. And he went out of order. No no no.
And then you have one resident demanding you go back and do the important step you skipped.
And another resident insisting you do the song you just sang in English over, but do it in Hebrew.
And another saying, you're talking too much rabbi, cut it short.
And another saying, why is he skipping around so much?
Well, of course he is, he isn't going to do every page, you don't want him to, you want him to finish tonight, don't you?
There were none of the smells of Passover that I miss. None of the foods either... no kugels, no overstuffed plates teeming with mama's recipes, or tante's recipes, or my sister's latest creation, or my own magnificent knaidels. Last year's seder at Debbie's house, so warm and welcoming, the only place I have been to seder that's as warm as family without being family is a packed-away memory for now, along with my family memories. My mental scrapbook of my children searching for the afikomen and bargaining with their father -- oy, what lousy bargainers my kiddies were -- compete with thoughts of how I'd like to do Passover with my grandchildren, to make it more fun, now that I've learned so much more about the process.
Passover seders with my grandfather, who followed it verbatim from the God of Maxwell House, plus the addition of the Yiddish drinking song he threw in, was never a joy, but my cousin Elaine and I always had fun in our own way. We lobbied to have sleepovers that week, one of the few times during the year we got to see each other, and either I would sleep over in Brooklyn while she was visiting or she would come to Valley Stream with me and stay there. During the seder we were not allowed to make a sound, nor nibble a morsel. It was very strict! We sat at the "women and children's table" down at the end, not realizing it was really the best spot because you could get up and disappear into the kitchen to "help." Grandpa sat on the couch at the head of the table, propped up like a king with pillows to recline on. There was no "interactive" participation. No one said "what Passover means today." There was no orange on the seder plate, no discussion of slavery today, no current events at all. Which, considering how political Grandpa Sam was, in actually very surprising.
I think, today, Grandpa would lead a very different seder.
There's more from tonight. But it will be a different post.