Once upon a time, there was a little succah
IN a charming little hut down a quaint dirt road (not dirt from spilled bowls of salad, obviously, only the dusty dirt that leads to charming little huts with sechach-thatched roofs) lived a nice family with loving parents and sweet children.
(Okay, so it wasn’t really a road. It was more like a long, narrow alley between two houses that led to a somewhat-less-narrow enclave at the end of a scooter-littered path, but that wouldn’t make the succah any less charming, would it? Narrower, maybe. The parents were definitely loving — tough loving when necessary — and the children were definitely sweet and sometimes they were even fresh. After-the-bath kind of fresh, naturally, when you can’t help but tough-love ’em.)
The walls of the hut were adorned with charming wall hangings, most of which were created by the patient, talented, and nimble fingers of the mother and her sweet children. Only some of them had paint streaks (and tear streaks, and actual tears…) and cracks and missing beads/pearls/leaves/sticks/many-other-things-that-the-mother-never-merited-to-see-but-believes-that-the-kid-did, and Mod Podge, and various materials that were intended to resemble lemons and fronds.
There was also the miniature succah created by an uber-talented first-year second grade teacher who would be scandalized as well as afraid for her reputation (and job) should she send home a decoration that looked like a second grader made it.
Create a free account to keep reading.
