my mother and passover

Passover, growing up…

We could seat, comfortably, about 6 around our dinner table. If we added the two leaves to the table the number could edge up to 10 as long as those left handed relatives sat at the ends of the table. Since the minimum number of people invited to dinner totaled closer to 24 we also had to hunt down the aluminum folding tables at least two and one wobbly card table and the extra 14 or so chairs that accompanied them. The tables would be set up in the living room with perhaps a border of two feet from the furniture already in that space and enough of a parameter so my grandmother who had trouble walking steps could make it to the stairs and perform her famous side-side-front back-front wobble and begin the climb to the second floor restroom.

My mother started her Passover preparations about a week in advance, with a sigh, a plea to my Dad to make sure the used freezer in the basement was really working, and a reminder to all four of her kids, that one day before the Seder dinner, we had better be prepared to dust, mop, clean, put away, and squeeze anything that lived on the floors in our room snuggly and secretly into the closets and the drawers. Neighbors were alerted for use of their ovens for all the baking my mother was about to embark on and of course she promised all of them at least on cake, kugel or sweet Passover goodie for their assistance.

The day of our Seder, found my mother with at least three bandages on her fingers from cutting this, chopping that… the smell of fresh fish cooking in the special Gefilte Fish pot… screaming that we handle the very old wine glasses carefully because one day they would be handed down to us, and place the ones with slight chips on them in front of the seats where my sisters and I were sitting… trying to match the three sets of silverware so each spoon, fork, knife looked like it was a set… five trips by the only son, me, of taking ice cubes from the upstairs freezer to the basement freezer… going house to house to try and find matching Haggadah ( the book of the story of Passover) from the neighbors…and being good, as in if you fight or pout, or refuse to help in any which way, hell will come your way. (never knew what that was).

We were not a very religious family growing up, but we were a very family and friend’s first culturally rich group of people. Jewish holidays had more of a meaning of unity for us, a place to come together over home cooked meals, sharing of family stories, and a time to reflect on the possibilities of love and caring. We invited cousins whose families were out of town, friends who were new to the area, neighbors who had no family in town and some people who to this day I have no idea of who they were or how they knew anyone in our immediate family.

The holiday of Passover for me has many meanings and even more memories. It is a time of reflection to remind me of the value of freedom, the urgency of independence, a sense of self all of which are so important in helping us find our own unique identities. It is, for all its fables and foibles, a moment in time when being Jewish, being a person, being alive should not be taken for granted and the power of life itself studied and respected. It has demonstrated for me the hero in all of us and the fact that one does matter.

And most of all it is a time when I miss my Mother even more than usual. This was her favorite holiday. She bitched and moaned, but anytime someone said we could do the holiday at their house, my mother had 810 reasons why we would not and could not. This was a holiday in which my mother led by example and taught us how to be inclusive, supportive and caring. This was her statement on what Judaism meant to her, not in a Biblical manner but a purpose one based on relevance and reverence. On this Passover 2011 I celebrate the amazement and awe that is and was my Mother and say Mummy, I miss you so much.

Chag Kasher V'Same'ach, wishing you a Happy and Kosher Passover!