My mother made a decision: If she wanted a home fueled by love, light, and happiness, no one could create that energy but her.
HAPPY HOME After all is said and done every single one of my siblings from the whitewashers to the psychoanalyzers to those in between who say there is nothing to whitewash or psychoanalyze agree that notwithstanding a forgotten book report or two (or ten) our home was a happy place to be. And no one doubts who gets the credit for that
M y mother danced in our kitchen.
The fridge might have broken or the sink backed up or maybe a teacher called for the third time in a month but she danced.
It wasn’t always simple. We lived out of town had no Jewish neighbors and Mom didn’t drive. She’d walk to the supermarket 15 minutes away to do her shopping and take a taxi home with 37 bags of groceries (or wait for our father who would get there after his last shiur and locking up the shul after Maariv) but she danced.
Her closest relative lived an hour and a quarter away and as the wife of a pulpit rabbi she was unable to pick up and go to her own mother for Shabbos if she ever needed a break. There were no pizza shops or kosher takeouts to fall back on after a hard day and no kosher catering so that a Shabbos bris meant she “catered” it herself… but still she danced.
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