With the hindsight of almost 60 years, I realize with sharp clarity how insightful and prescient my mother was
“MA,why can’t we just light already?” I pleaded.
Calm yet resolute, my mother responded quietly, “We will wait for your father to come home and then light the menorah together as a family.”
I was nine years old and living in Brooklyn.
My father, a photographer, supported his family by traversing the Tristate area, taking pictures of newborns and hoping to sell the photographs to proud parents. His job took him everywhere from Hoboken, New Jersey, to Norwalk, Connecticut, and all across New York City.
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