As You Like It: Yahrtzeit

Last week Steve and I decided to escape the house for a day trip. Steve’s been wanting to stroll Newport’s Cliff Walk for a long time now, but somehow each summer passes and we never quite get there. On Sunday we finally made it.

It was a perfect New England day — mid 80s, sunny — the kind of weather when we remember why we stay in Boston. Newport was as lovely as it was crowded with tourists, everyone determined to enjoy every last bit of New England quaintness. Even though it was warm, there was a brisk breeze that brought a certain chill to the air and I hadn’t brought a jacket. I figured I’d buy one; after all, how hard could it be to find an inexpensive little jacket?

But this was Newport, not exactly the place for bargains. I sat Steve down on a bench and proceeded to walk in and out of countless stores stuffed with astronomical prices. I was finally excited to find a black jean jacket, something I have been wanting for months, so I wouldn’t be wasting my money on something that I would never wear again. Unfortunately it had two strikes against it — the price (I could have bought an entire wardrobe) and the fact that it was styled in the latest ripped-to-shreds fashion.

It would have been a lovely jacket if it weren’t for the rips and tears everywhere. Someone had spent a lot of valuable time making it look like it had been mauled by a pack of mad dogs. I thought about asking the saleslady for a discount since I was going to have to spend a considerable amount of time sewing it back together!

The entire time that I looked at the jacket I heard my father’s voice in my head, laughing his musical laugh at the idiocy of the world. Years ago, when this shredded look had originally come into fashion, he, mom and I were shopping when we came across jeans that were artistically ripped and ridiculously priced. We keeled over in hysterical laughter when my dad, who was a very talented tailor, held a pair up and said in Yiddish, “Look at what they’re selling, tserisseneh hoisin (torn pants)!”

It has since become a family catchphrase, sure to send us all into fits of laughter, for any piece of clothing that we find in a store that looks like it should be in the rag bin — as in, “They’re asking how much for those tserisseneh hoisin!?”

My dad’s voice has been in my head for weeks now. I don’t know why, but perhaps because next week is his Yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his death 16 years ago. Each year we receive a card from our temple reminding us to light a candle the night before the anniversary and to say the kaddish prayer in his memory. His name is read after evening prayers so he is not forgotten. As if he could be. But how could 16 years have passed?

I checked with Steve because I couldn’t believe it. Sixteen years since I stood with mom and our friends in the blazing Israeli sun watching as daddy was lowered into a grave steps from the Mediterranean Sea. We could hear the waves hitting the beach and people’s voices as they walked along the ocean’s edge. Life and death separated only by a low stone wall and grief.

Mom had asked me if I wanted to speak at the funeral and I found that I couldn’t. My voice refused to come. All I had was silence. And anger. I had seen him just a couple of months before. He hadn’t been well for years and so I had found an opportunity to fly out during that spring. When I left him he was sleeping and I selfishly whispered in his ear to hold on until I returned in the summer. But he couldn’t. So I raced out but arrived too late to say goodbye.

Happily I still hear his voice, which surprises me because that’s usually the first memory to go. And his voice still makes me laugh as I imagine him dryly commenting in Yiddish on some bit of stupidity, whether it’s a store selling ripped clothes as high fashion or a restaurant where it is so romantically dark that you can’t find your food on your plate. Daddy used to wonder what it was they were hiding.

I remember so much but especially that his gold standard for a human being was to be a mensch — a righteous person, someone who cared for others.

I especially miss his voice now during this latest election season because it was daddy who taught me politics. I cut my teeth on presidential debates arguing with my dad and the television. If he were here now I would be giggling at his comments on how this campaign is being run. He would have some choice words for the Donald and Bernie and Hillary. He would set them all straight plus offer them an intelligent plan for solving our country’s problems.

And I would be wishing that I could nominate my dad for president. But he would softly discount my foolishness and remind me once again that the most important thing of all in this life was to be a mensch. And so everyday I try to listen for his voice.

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Posted by Joan Florek Schottenfeld on Jul 1 2016. Filed under As You Like It, Featured Content, Opinion. Both comments and pings are currently closed.