This weekend marks the beginning of Passover ( written last week ), but when my mind ruminates over the week, it is peppered by certain landmines. There is the unexpected passing of purple Prince and my sister’s mother-in-law, yet also the Queen’s 90th birthday and how we will be remembered. Watching the queen age over time from the slim attractive spritely ingénue to the well turned out dowager, I chortle at the formal portrait eclipsed by her granddaughter holding her purse. “ Granny, can I please hold your purse?” Time works its ravages. Yet Elizabeth II endures to oversee children and grandchildren. Can anyone ask for more?
My children feel I am lately maudlin and depressing, particularly in my blogs, but it is difficult to stand at this point in my life and view all that has unfolded behind, me as the protagonist in a landscape that has been so altered in almost 70 years of living. We, the boomers who would always gyrate or sway to the songs of our youth, flowers in our hair, beads jangling at our waists who would never fall to the ways of our own parents. But of course, we did and do, as time is the great leveler.
I was always fascinated by TS. Eliot. As early as high school, we studied The Wasteland and later, it was these words in Burnt Norton of The Four Quartets that informed many papers I wrote,
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
The subject of time pondered by poets and prophets and philosophers. It moves like a thief: we do not see it, but feel its impact on all things human and constructed. In ways, it softens the edges of grief and helps us endure the hard times. We say, If we can only get through this day, then…It also provides us with the support of memories that endure as bulwarks , for example, of Passovers past.
Passover, the food and the grand seder meal all combine to resurrect memories. When my son, Jordan, was little, he politely confronted my father, asking if we might do the seder in English. My father in his rust-coloured sweater pondered for maybe a minute before saying, “No”. It would proceed as always. Today we use both languages, sometimes whipping through the program, but still pausing in the parts that are central: as we spill the wine for the 10 plagues; or loudly proclaiming” Daienyu- it’s enough all ready”, we proclaim together. Let the troubles end, we’ve sustained enough. Just move on-
As a child I remember the service going on interminably as I waited to be released to play and tumble with my cousins after dinner. The best was a dun-coloured raisin wine concocted by my grandmother in her basement for the event. She sat in the kitchen while we ate, sucking on chicken bones, her duties that began and concluded with the food. No Cuisinart or freezing, just lots of chopping/hucking, mincing, preparing that no doubt fostered her desire to sit quietly by herself outside the voices that rose and fell over the eternal service. No welcoming smile or loving hand, a person enclosed in herself. As I do Rosh Hashana dinner, and even with the advent of all the modern technologies to aid in cooking the meal, I now comprehend her exhaustion and desire to just decompress with her aching bones in a chair.
Yet my own mother, dead on her feet, was always present at these celebrations, a smart scarf at her neck and attempt made to “ dress up.” And she did not complain of the laborious hours spent – so that my sister and I would find something trivial to complain about until my father would eventually bark, “ Can’t you two ever get along?’
Only at the first seder after my father’s death, was my mother seated, a guest at the seder, quiet, alone, in the sea of voices. My younger daughter for some reason that night stood to hauntingly sing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” and my son whispered, “ I miss him so much”. We were all stuck in her erry voice connected through time to my father’s missing presence.
As well at my mother’s last seder, my older daughter warmly and comfortingly curved to my mother, explaining where we were in the service, an interchange with Baba that evoked a slow smile from her precious face. These snippets of memories during those times together are set in my consciousness as I recreate and visualize my family, the ambiance of those nights.
Over the years, I heard of people at Passover who created tents in their living rooms to pretend they were traveling in the desert. Others insisted on placing something like an orange on the seder plate: one of these things is not like the others- to underline difference. Above all, the Passover story is about freedoms. I lovingly laugh at the play my grandson created for his playmates in which a mouse refuses to continue to be oppressed. He proclaims to his fellow mouselets, they can kill us, but at least we will be free. Echoes of Sunday morning Hebrew school perhaps?
This put me in mind of my teaching of the Post-colonial literature course and the book I sometimes taught “Imagining Argentina,” an award-winning novel by Lawrence Thornton. It dramatizes the Dirty War in 1970s Buenos Aires, Argentina, where the military government abducted anyone who opposed its tyrannical rule. We talked about the March of the Grandmothers in Plaza del Mayo and I showed my students the heartbreaking film, The Official Story. I used much the same line as my grandson. Stories are the same, no matter the culture, the place, the time.
Life is so much a mix of opposites with the bittersweet reminisces that remain and enliven our lives. As I look out towards my yard, it is gray and gloomy and raining and yet a robin just flew towards my window and the ducks who visit every year made a brief appearance yesterday: omens that spring is not far. So hopefully I can soon regain my sunnier outlook. Mea culpa, kids.