I am in the midst of writing a blog entry about my connections with the city of Berkeley, linking my own youth to a recent visit with Zac, Vicky and grandson Alden. For research and memory purposes, I went back to look at a eulogistic piece I wrote near the time of my Aunt Sarah’s death in 2019. The piece captures well my emotional connection not only to Sarah and my Uncle Joe but to Berkeley as well. You can read it below as prologue to the next blog entry I intend to post soon.

Memories of Sarah

Sarah was a reluctant participant in technological change.  Wait. Reluctant is too weak a word.   Resistant?  Luddite-like? Indignant?  Yeah, that’s a closer fit.  

“I will get a push button phone only when I cannot reach Kaiser with my dial phone,” she insisted.  Eventually she had to get the tonal phone.

It is at least ironic then that it took the Internet to easily answer one of her core puzzles in life: What are the real words to the One Day at a Time theme song? It sounds like “wop on deet.” The answer, which really isn’t the important part of this story, is “up on your feet.”  I read the lyrics on You Tube and listened to the theme song again and again. Still sounds like “wop on deet.”

Aunt Sarah died on August 21, 2019 at the age of 85. Never met anyone remotely like her.  The arc of her life took her to extraordinary places and connected her to talented and accomplished people.  And she was brilliant and creative and loving and thoughtful of others and self-limitingly fearful and quirky[1] to her core.

Sarah was born on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, to an MD father and supportive wife.  She had a big brother who emotionally abused her, terrified her (“Maybe you’ll wake up in the morning, or maybe I’ll kill you in your sleep.”), and in general made her childhood home a torturous memory. Yet the neighborhood itself held its treasures and protections as a place to escape from familial dangers.  She told stories of Mrs. Zabar (of Zabars Deli fame) giving young Sarah free sweets, and smiled while remembering winter days with friends, ice skating in Central Park.  Her father made house calls in the neighborhood and his lovely, quiet daughter drew reflected respect and appreciation from his patients.

As she went through puberty, her extraordinary beauty provided – as they do for the beautiful – opportunities and risks.  She became a high-fashion coat model. Sarah told the story of her Jewish boss protecting her from the clutches of predators by saying “Don’t touch that one. She’s a landsman,” which referred to Sarah’s Jewish heritage. Yet, Sarah was not only secular and unlearned about that heritage but actively irreligious, demurring from any focus on her ethnicity.

Sarah the coat model

She married at age 17, principally as she told it, to get away from her frightening brother. Her husband, Marvin, was in the theater industry in New York.  She got hit on by Walter Matthau – and others whose names haven’t lasted the ages – and was highly uncomfortable with the socially prominent in-crowd.  Much the introvert, she decided to divorce husband number one.  While attending a musical performance, an acquaintance of Sarah’s, Joe Jaffe, asked her how Marvin was doing. “I don’t know for sure,” she replied. “I’m going to leave him.”

“Well then, I’m moving in on you,” Joe stated matter-of-factly.  Sarah recalled this event with bemused awe.  But Joe’s overture evidently met with Sarah’s approval. They were married for 60 years.

Joe too was in the entertainment field.  At least for a few years.  He played banjo and became a virtuoso with the instrument just at the time the post-war folk music movement in New York’s Greenwich Village was taking off.  He played with Peter Seeger and Woody Guthrie and other folk luminaries. Pete gives credit to Joe in his classic book How to Play the 5 String Banjo for teaching him a thing or two.

Joe was a caller for square dances, a session instrumentalist during jams, but never a major soloist. He was asked to join “The Weavers” folk music group as they were forming but turned them down to pursue higher education.   But not before – he claimed – teaching them an Israeli song he heard, Tsena Tsena Tsena, which the group converted into a smash popular hit (# 2 on the Billboard charts) in 1950[2].

Joe eventually became a chemical engineer, working for Standard Oil of California at its Richmond refinery. A creative, if unorthodox, catalytic chemist (he tended to go with “hunches” which often proved correct), we are left with over 30 patents in his name.  But the draw for Sarah originally was not his scientific expertise, but the joyousness with which he performed both the banjo and the guitar, and, apparently, as she endearingly recalled, his thin yet shapely legs.  I think she found that he also had a sense of assurance that appealed.  He didn’t seem fawning over her. And he was her competitive match in the quirkiness department (and well beyond her capacity for cringe-worthiness!).

Sarah loved to tell what became classic Joe stories. The only student in the history of the program to fail the “Factory Trips” class at engineering school (he refused to turn in a write-up of his trip).  Saying “Ah, so!” to the waiter at the Chinese restaurant. Stubbornly refusing orders from exasperated military authorities during the Korean War, which led them to keep him out of reach of any soldier other than during his entertainment gigs (he led music performances for the troops). Collecting tool kits at garage sales, not because he needed any more tools, but because they were such deals. Keeping an abundant collection of tapes (Scotch, electrical, and the always useful duct), that somehow marginally held the plumbing and wiring together. Heaven forbid one actually calls a plumber and upgrades the damn house.

The couple relocated several times, following paths to a series of Joe’s engineering jobs.  From New York to New Jersey to St. Louis, and finally to Berkeley, California. 

Sarah loved Berkeley. She loved the weather. Never hot, never cold. Fog rolling in each summer afternoon, leading to a specific window opening and closing and shade lowering and raising procedure that kept the house comfortable year-round. She loved the brilliant azaleas, sprawling oaks, fluffy “broccoli trees” and tasty loquats.  No Pacific Northwest “pointy” trees for her. She loved Tilden and Live Oak Parks, Mt. Tam and the Marin Headlands, Point Reyes and Redwood Regional, and in the summer, long treks in Yosemite.  She loved Strawberry Creek gently flowing down a UC Berkeley campus filled with old, classically designed buildings.

Joe and Sarah hiked weekends, and when their two boys grew old enough, the four of them would take off to the High Sierra.  They joined the Berkeley Hiking Club and the Sierra Club. Initially, upon moving to Berkeley, they rented a home for a couple of years on Walnut Street. While looking to buy they found a 1920’s cottage in the Berkeley Hills on Scenic Avenue, just four blocks from Shattuck (then known as the North Berkeley “Gourmet Ghetto” now called the “North Shattuck District”). They bought it in 1963 and settled in forever; two brilliant, funny, talented, quirky people, living in that quirky house until each of them died there.  Joe 3 years ago, Sarah in August.

When bought, the house had no dining room, a tiny kitchen, a poor foundation, a dysfunctional fireplace and chimney, ancient plumbing and electrical systems, paper-thin walls upstairs, and a hell of a wonderful living room with five knotless redwood beams and a magnificent view of the Golden Gate Bridge and Mt. Tam.  Sarah could send her boys to walk down the hill to get a pint of milk.  A basketball hoop was set up below the house on the street… a 30-step walk down from the front door.  The yard had a lemon tree, that never produced much, and a persimmon tree that produced plentiful, flavorful gooey fruit.  It was a low-maintenance yard, with a minimum of non-irrigated grass down from the upper steps, a dominance of English ivy upfront and along the road, and a brick patio and small hillside of native bushes out back. Over the years, the English ivy had its way with the back hillside as well. And Sarah never watered the landscape. That would only “encourage” the plants, causing more work for her.

Two blocks up the street was Codornices Park, with its kid-friendly, 40-foot concrete slide that worked best by grabbing a large piece of cardboard, jumping on top of it and letting gravity do its thing.  There was the park’s softball field by the EBMUD reservoir, and the twisting forested trails up into the upper Berkeley Hills where one instantly became immersed in the smells of pine needles, bay laurel leaves and eucalyptus buttons.  There was the small children’s playground often filled with wee ones whose parents’ kid-centered gazes occurred with inverse frequency to their children’s ages. And there was the echo-ready tunnel under Euclid Avenue which connected Codornices to the Berkeley Rose Garden, tennis courts and famous Golden Gate sunset viewpoint. Codornices was an integral part of Sarah’s walking loop into the hills, her sturdy broad strides interrupted only occasionally by a lesson to her touring partners on the history of the Berkeley Brown Shingles architectural style, or the distinctions between cedars and cypresses, or manzanitas and madrones (always delivered with a thick German accent because of the German friend who first described to her those distinctions).

Four blocks down the street was Shattuck Avenue, with the Berkeley Food Coop, the post office (it didn’t have those “great deals” on packages found at the El Cerrito Post office but it was convenient and “goodness no” would one put one’s mail into one’s own mailbox for it would surely be stolen!), the Cheeseboard Collective, Alice Water’s Chez Panisse restaurant, and the French Laundry coffee and pastry shop. It was at first, second and third glance a kind of neighborhood commercial paradise.

On the other hand, urban crime and violence and the general crazed intensity of Berkeley’s politics became an increasing cause of concern and fear for Sarah.  She wouldn’t go to Saul’s Restaurant because she was convinced the anti-Semites would bomb it (though from grandson urgings, she would relent a bit in later times for a tasty breakfast).  The 30-step climb to their front door probably saved Sarah and Joe from the fate of apparently every other household on their block – a break-in and theft.  She hated the new and hideous buildings on the UC Berkeley campus. She lamented the city’s lack of road and parks maintenance, as its city council prioritized national and international political stances over municipal services.  Increased pressures on housing prices and demand, saw the city accept proposals for high-rise developments, which Sarah opposed. She wrote a letter to the council and a poem decrying the city’s caving to the whims of the development interests. As the years progressed, Sarah bemoaned the loss of the historic municipal idyll that was her Berkeley at first sight. She and I, her urban planner nephew, would have long discussions about city policies.

At a different scale, the domestic life in the Jaffe household seemed remarkably stable. While Sarah did work outside the home for a few years, leading music and doing some teaching in a Berkeley pre-school, for the most part, she was a stay-at-home mother and wife.  She shopped, cooked and cleaned and did yard work, as Joe went off to the lab for about 25 years.  Hilariously, and with successful determination – obstinance?! – once Joe retired, Sarah pledged to never cook a meal again. Other than taking on the turkey and a few other dishes at the annual Thanksgiving feast, sharing the cooking load with vegetarian daughter-in-law Janie; and other than the almost daily Sapporo Ichiban Original Formula Ramen to which she added broccoli and other greens and claimed, without convincing rationale, wasn’t actually cooking; she pretty much pulled that off.

Post retirement, Sarah and Joe became restaurant mavens in the diner’s bliss that was the East Bay Area. Renee’s Place (orange chicken), Pasta Pomodoro (mista salad with soda pop that she whisked for minutes to get the fizz out), The Meal Ticket (just about anything was always good), Christopher’s (add the bowl of guac regardless), Gregoire’s (potato puffs), and Poulet (an assortment of salads). I could go on! So I will.  There was the Fatapples we go to (El Cerrito) and the Fatapples we don’t go to (Berkeley, even though it was much closer). For Joe’s unhealthy comfort foods, there was Brennan’s piled high meat platters and HS Lordship’s weekend brunch buffet by the Berkeley Marina. Tandoori Nites in Stockton was a requirement when visiting the Stockton Jaffes.  Sarah could no longer handle the spices but would revel in other’s pleasure.  And for guests like me, at all the restaurants, and even for the food bought at the supermarket and brought home to Scenic Avenue, the rule was “Because I don’t cook anymore, we pay for all food when you visit us.”  Sarah said it was “Joe’s rule.”  I knew Joe. Everyone knew Joe.  Everyone knew it was not Joe’s rule.  But for Sarah, it was Joe’s rule.  I would cheat when I could.  “But Sarah, this wasn’t food. It was entertainment and that isn’t covered,” I’d counter. We’d look at each other, smile, and sometimes I’d get away with it and sometimes not.  But mostly I didn’t, and she would ask me to show her the receipts and take out her wad of bills – she never paid seemingly anything with checks or credit cards – and reimburse my costs.

Household evenings back during the child-rearing years in the 60’s and early 70’s were spent singing songs together as a family. Sarah would ask Joe to get out his guitar – sold (given?) to him by Woody Guthrie and famous for the “this machine kills fascists” line written on its back – and they would sing and play the folk music learned in their youth.[3]  Both had incredible memories for lyrics, and they would sing the evenings through.

As the boys grew, they too were encouraged – required – to play music. Sarah did the initial introductory lessons on the piano to both Michael and Peter.  Michael gave up on it after a few years – to the chagrin of his mom.  He took it up again later when out of the house and plays and composes to this day.  Peter, the older, continued for a while on the piano, but then seriously took up the violin.  He was a prodigy with perfect pitch and went on to a career in music, marrying a musicologist, and becoming symphony orchestra conductor of the Stockton Symphony, other regional orchestras, and a guest conductor and teacher throughout the world. Sarah was not only proud of her son’s musical aptitude but felt great joy in attending regional performances for decades.

When the family wasn’t sitting around together playing and singing music, they watched shows together on the TV, and listened to records, both musical and comical. Fawlty Towers ran as a virtual loop (Basil!). Beyond the Fringe’s The Great Train Robbery and The Miner, were preps for the main course, Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner’s The 2000-Year-Old Man LP. The latter became an essential rite at every visit with the Jaffes.  Quoting from it seemed to fit any conversation. Sarah would call me every October 15 just to say “Not yet, October 16^th” which was the date the 2000-year-old man would actually turn 2000.  “The major thing” became anything that came next, as long as you weren’t eating fried foods. “It was so simple, I didn’t know it was eloquent,” was the latest insight.  “How you doin’ Pop?” substituted for the ungratefulness of children. Landing a man on the moon, or any dramatically positive accomplishment was said to be “good too.” “Hitting a tree with a piece of stick was already a good job,” told of one’s career objectives. “Some good things,” was any measure of satisfaction. Nectarines were in fact not “half a peach, half a plum,” but it didn’t matter.  It was all familiarity for the soul.

So was Sarah’s devotion to the original Star Trek and quotes would usher forth at appropriate times.  While all the other women in my life have justly described the show as “just dumb,” not Sarah, who indeed knew it to be dumb, but was reassured by the familiarity of its characters and didn’t mind seeing it for the 5^th and 6^th time. Always filled with fears for the future, Star Trek, appealed to her need for a hopeful, positive human destiny.

In the sweet years of family life, Sarah would call out to her youngest son:

“Michael, come down and watch Star Trek.” 

“I can’t Ma, I have homework,” he replied.

“But this is the episode with the amoeba.”

“I can’t Ma, I have to finish this paper.”

Visits to Sarah and Joe

When our family moved to Seattle from New York in 1955, the most proximate relatives – whom we didn’t know well – were in LA. When Sarah and Joe moved to Berkeley in 1961, they became the nearest relatives. We visited them as a family a couple of times in my childhood and they drove up a couple of times to visit us. I was close in age to their two sons. Peter was a year younger and little brother Michael about two years younger than that. When I became a teenager, we somehow got the idea that I could visit with them in Berkeley by myself. Because my sisters were already out of the house, there was probably a relief factor for my parents to have a breather of complete independence from all the kids.

I think I visited with the Jaffes at least twice for extended periods (a week or two) in my teens. Joe was still working then, so he was not around as much as Sarah and the boys.  I felt a great bonding with her at that time.  She was younger and “cooler” than my parents.  Once, she picked me up at the airport and she drove over to go grocery shopping before reaching home. As we left the car, walking along the street to the Berkeley Food Coop, Sarah said matter-of-factly “watch out for the shit.”  The teenage me loved that.  Just saying the word “shit” as opposed to a euphemism. She was nonplussed. “Well, that’s what it is.”

The Jaffe’s two cars in the 70’s were called Big White and Little Blue.  Joe drove Big White – a ginormous Oldsmobile Delta 88 gas guzzler. He explained that after the 1973 energy crisis, the price of gas increased but the cost of buying a used gas guzzler plummeted.  Always trying to save a buck, he calculated in favor of guzzling.   Little Blue, on the other hand, was a tiny, high-gas mileage Austin America British import.  Horribly constructed, marginally functional (wouldn’t start when it rained), Sarah saw the car as a “sweet little boy with bright blue eyes in a tidy blue sailor suit.”  As I turned 16 and secured my driver’s license, I convinced Sarah to let me drive Little Blue.  She gained confidence in my driving and she complimented me on it.  She would, of course, NEVER let Joe drive Little Blue – or drive her anywhere with any vehicle – because he was such a frighteningly horrible driver.   Her confidence in me was affirming.  Around Sarah, I felt respected.

And appreciated.  She didn’t praise Joe’s cooking, but she loved mine or at least did a magnificent job of feigning it.  I made her chicken cacciatore. She would respond with characteristic pleasurable mming sounds as she ate it. “Mmmmmm, oh, mmmmmm, it is so delicious!” she would say as she leaned into the plate and slowly savored each bite.   

Between the time I graduated from high school to the time I went to UC Berkeley – about six years – I did not see the Jaffes often.  For a few months prior to being accepted to grad school in Berkeley, I was hanging around various portions of the state trying to establish California residency (for cheaper tuition). Sarah and Joe made it clear that while I could visit them for short periods, I couldn’t stay there. They were setting appropriate boundaries. Then when I did get accepted to Cal, we saw each other a lot more, though not as much as I would have expected.  We enjoyed each other’s company, but Joe was still working hard, and in fact, so was I.

My experiences with the Jaffes in general, and with Sarah in particular, were always centered on humor. We made each other laugh.  Laugh hard.  Laugh till it hurt. Laugh till tears were shed. Laugh till the stresses of “the real world” were peeled away. Laugh till the love for each other was sealed.  And the laughter came from … where? They weren’t jokes, pe se.

“I was just talking with my friend Ted Phlaff,” Sarah starts out.

“How do you spell that,” I interrupt and inquire?

“P H L A F F”

“No, I knew that. I was asking about Ted.” 

Sarah and I bonded not just with humor but also in part with a critique of my parents in general and my mom in particular. When a teenager, Mom and I had a lot of difficulty with each other.  Sarah, over the years, likewise, had some very negative experiences with Mom, and we talked with each other about our mutual difficulties.  The themes were overlapping if not identical.  For Sarah, Art and Ruth (my parents) were the much older, quasi-parental effete academics, who didn’t respect her.  Sarah’s critique of Mom – that she was unspecific, aloof and kind of dishonest – met my assessment perfectly. Sarah was less harsh about my dad, but she sensed her failure to meet his standards as well.

In every relationship there are strengths and weaknesses. Places to go together and places you can’t, or at least aren’t satisfying if you try.  One warm autumn morning when attending UC Berkeley, my sister called to tell me that my dad had just died. He was in Israel, traveling with my mom on his sabbatical. I immediately called Sarah and Joe and asked to come by their house. They said sure.  With a hyperactive surge of adrenaline, I rode my bicycle shakily down the streets and over to their home in the throes of this emotional event. Boy, did they not meet the moment.  Sarah ended up criticizing Dad and Mom and Joe didn’t know what exactly to say. They were simply not able to cope empathetically with a young man at a critical moment of loss. I felt a disappointing distance from them at that point, and while we continued to see each other and enjoy each other’s company, I came to accept the limits of certain emotional connections.

About 10 years later, a horrible reality of my life drew us closer together than ever. I got married at age 29 and divorced at 35. One term of the divorce decree was particularly tough to swallow. The provision stated that I could have my son Zac up to 9 days during spring break from school only if I took him out of town.  Not prepared to spend a lot of money for hotel rooms, and not having a lot of out-of-town connections, Zac and I ended up visiting with Sarah and Joe virtually every spring for those 9 days.  It turned out to be the most wonderful times he and I shared together in his childhood.  Sarah, who had professionally led singing and read to preschoolers, was extraordinary.  She and Zac bonded closely. She drew pictures of “Pickles and Sauerkraut,” two rabbits living in a tranquil garden, and she told tales of their rabbit lives. They read Oz books and Thurber, and other children’s favorites. My image of them curled up together on the love seat, Zac nestled under Sarah’s arm, enthralled by some book Sarah was reading with delighted emotion, is indelible in my mind and in my heart. And I was fully able to relax, knowing Zac was under beloved care.

These visits became springtime and sometimes summertime opportunities to be “home.”  To feel safe and happy and with people who loved us, and we loved them.  We of course laughed a lot.  Zac developed not only connections with Sarah and Joe (who playfully called him Schmendrick) but also saw that I too was a respected and loved person in my own right. A welcome respite for me from my perceived role as dad the maligned divorcée.

In those trips to Berkeley, there were both bundles of quasi-obligations (Well, we’ve GOT to go to Godfather’s Pizza of course and Indian Rock Park!) and basically nothing to do at all.  Sarah put together video tapes of various – usually PBS – shows, and we would figure out in the week we were there, what we would try to accomplish.  How could we get it all done?  There was laundry to do and a doctor’s appointment, and several restaurants that were musts. That was already a big week!

After Zac turned 12, his annual trips to Sarah and Joe ended. For the rest of his childhood, he stayed solely with his mom.  But my trips back to Berkeley continued.  As my intense work responsibilities remained, connections with a new wife and step-children solidified, and my mother faded into Alzheimer’s, I recognized that by then, the closest thing I really had to a childhood home, and the closet thing I had to a parent who unconditionally loved me, was Sarah in Berkeley.  Joe was a treasured connection as well, and his humorous wisdom still applied regularly to my life (“increase your options”, “alive with imprisoned carbonation”). But as Joe would say, I was Sarah’s third child.

For a woman who lived constantly with various fears, after Joe died, I thought Sarah handled the last few years of her life pretty much exactly as she wanted to.  She never did leave her cherished house on Scenic Avenue – though hospital stays occurred from time to time and senior residential sites were considered. She insisted on independence until it was no longer possible.  And then, only for a few short months, did she both accept in-home support and determine an effective way to control her destiny.  She wanted to go, and she wanted to minimize pain.  Sarah had a full and delight-filled life, and how gratifying it is that she lived that life and left that life, as much as any of us can, on her own terms.

[1] Okay, what makes quirky? Try these on for size.  Sarah and Joe kept almost all the furniture remaining in the house that they bought in 1963 and never replaced any of it.  However, she said that she hated the big mirror in the living room, and the dining room table was wobbly and dysfunctional!  Quirky?  All around the house, Sarah wrote in exquisitely clear print, instructions on how to manage various home peculiarities. “Hold the flush handle down until all water has been replaced in the bowl.” More quirky?  Never blow your nose, just squeeze.  Telephone books used as dinner plate props to improve posture.  Recording the growth of boys with height marks on the inside of the dining room doorway. In ink. Keep track for 50 plus years. Need still more quirky?  Read on below.

[2] As an aside, Joe also claimed that his father – my grandfather – created the slogan “Good to the Last Drop” for Maxwell House coffee.  Both the Tsena and Maxwell House claims do not stand up to Internet searching scrutiny, but Joe made the statements with such pride and authority, that I’ll run with them here for family lore purposes. What’s truth?

[3] Joe took the guitar and messed around with it.  He removed the “fascist language.”  Scraped and carved its inside and removed interior bracings. Inserted replacement structural elements.  Replaced the headstock and fretboard.  And produced the sweetest, most deeply resonant-sounding guitar I’ve ever heard or had the pleasure to play.

I’m sitting at a tiny desk in my room in a cute, brick-faced historic boutique hotel on the main street of the stunningly gorgeous, revitalized downtown of Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. How I ended up in this spot was more or less pure chance.  It certainly wasn’t the original plan to stay the night in the nation’s “most beautiful” small town the day before attending an historic preservation event in Philadelphia.  Yet here I am.

Sometimes writing themes for blog entries just slap me in the face. And this 8-day visit to the East Coast has prompted a doozy of a theme. Um… let’s start with the original purpose of the trip.

My Olympia synagogue, Temple Beth Hatfiloh, has been awarded a 50% matching grant by the National Fund for Sacred Places program of the National Trust for Historic Preservation. The grant is to replace the roofing and other ancillary support systems of our historic sanctuary building. NFSP provides funds for grant recipients to fly out to Philly and receive training in planning, fundraising and project management. We even got our meals and hotel rooms paid for by the private, non-governmentally funded program. As President of TBH, and someone who has a background in both construction project management and historic preservation, I chose to insert myself as one of the participants in the training along with our rabbi and lead temple administrator.

While Philly was the destination, I decided to kill several birds with one stone (Yes, I visited the John James Audubon Center yesterday, but the analogy would work even without that prompting!) The international center for the Jewish Reconstructionist movement has its administrative headquarters and seminary just outside of the Philly city limits, and I wanted to tour that.  I also wanted to visit with friends and relatives in New York, which is just a couple hours away by car (when traffic is light, but it is almost never light).  So, I planned an elongated visit beyond its core original purpose.

What of the faced-slapped theme? Well, “Reconstructing Judaism” (RJ) is the name of the institutional organization of Jewish religious practice of which our synagogue is an affiliate, and the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College (RRC) is the name of its co-located seminary. Our current and former rabbis graduated from that college.

The action of rehabilitation and/or reconstruction is also a core element that all NFSP grant recipients have in their projects.  

Reconstruction. The very word requires two priors. Construction for one.  But also some level of destruction, or at least of abandonment and natural deterioration. The concept of historic preservation for structures fits that term to a tee.  But so too can the act of living itself, as I will explain through the episodes of this trip described below, focused on a theme of reconstruction.

Episode #1:  Reconstructing Judaism

The 20^th Century was certainly a mixed bag for Jews. The Holocaust, mass migration, the founding of a Jewish political nation after a couple of millennia, great accomplishments by individual Jews that advanced human knowledge (Einstein was no slouch for example) and extended lifespans (28% of Nobel prize winners in medicine have been Jewish), as well as our share of schmendricks and those far far worse (how about mafiosis like Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky and schmucks like Stephen Miller?).

In the world of organized religious practice, the 20^th Century also had Jews going in many different directions. When faced with extraordinary changes in the scientific knowledge of the atom to the universe, massive reorientations to the social norms of gender and class, and transformational political alignments, how would religious practice respond in ways that were both sacred and relevant? What of the spiritual dimension of Jewish living?

An American Jewish philosopher, writer and spiritual leader named Mordechai Kaplan developed a theory of the case. Instead of maintaining standard religious practices and theology in the face of enormous change, Kaplan came up with a structure for being an observant Jew which he saw as meeting the needs of the moment and the future of the Jewish people.

Perhaps his most famous line was that Jewish traditional practice “had a vote, not a veto.” He believed that it was up to the Jewish people of every generation to look closely at historic religious practices, and rather than simply discarding or accepting them fully intact, to re-evaluate and reconstruct them as necessary and proper to meet the day’s conditions and concerns. Ancient Jewish doctrine and behavior for Kaplan would never be the final word, but current means of observance must always be in the interest of Jewish peoplehood and continuity.

I am no scholar of Jewish practice, but hearing of Kaplan’s basic approach just felt “right” to me for many years. I found a comfortable spiritual and intellectual home as a Jew with “reconstructionism” as its core.

Now, our temple is in the middle of a strategic planning process. As a leader in that process I want to know more about the status of RJ, RRC, affiliated synagogues and the movement as a whole. I am aware of some recent tensions that have flared, with potential to drive a wedge within the movement. Is schism on the table?  Is the movement at risk? And even without controversies per se, my decision to visit RJ reflects an interest in understanding the center of the Reconstructionist movement’s own sense of its health and vibrancy. Could what happens there effect what happens in the coming years at our temple?

The most dominant current issue with potential to seriously challenge RJ membership and stability is identifying the place for anti-Zionism within what has traditionally been described as a “Progressive Zionist” movement. I intended to raise that with my tour hosts and get their assessment of the issue.

But at the start of the tour, my host, Rabbi Maurice, introduced me to several RJ administrative staff and then we went off immediately to a RRC Torah-reading class.  There were 6 students sitting around a table with one professor, Rabbi Maurice and me. Each student was asked to first read a few lines of text in Hebrew, then translate that text into English. That was followed by a discussion exploring the translation’s accuracy and nuance. There was also discussion on the substance of the message within the portion.  What lessons were being taught? What examples from modern life can fit within the torah story? Active minds were at work!

I found the instructional methods fascinating and effective at building both language skills and the capacity to marshal rational arguments. Discussion amongst rabbis is, of course, the heart of the Talmudic tradition, and it was illuminating to see it played out before me.

After the class, Maurice took me to a lunch/breakroom at the college. We were met by both RJ administrators and students eating their lunches.  It was there where I first raised the thorny question of how the school deals with the different political positions of anti-Zionists and Progressive Zionists. I raised it in the context of trying to understand the impact of that controversy on student enrollment and world-wide affiliation.

At one point, as Maurice and an administrator and I were talking about the subject, a rabbinical student overheard us and asked to join our conversation and say a few words. That was great!  She responded directly and eloquently to the core issue, identifying what I have come to understand as the movement’s “position” on the matter.  The position, in a simplified way, is to continue to identify Progressive Zionism as the movement’s fundamental orientation, but to accept anti-Zionists into the school. There would be no “litmus test” on the question of RRC student enrollment. And for the future… well, everything can be reconstructed, right?

After our breakroom discussion, Maurice and I joined other RJ leadership, including the RRC dean, for a lunch and further questions and interactions in a separate meeting room. (The hummus and eggplant pita sandwich was delicious!) This time, the wide-ranging conversation included the anti-Zionist/Progressive Zionist question, but we also explored the health and stability of the movement in other areas, and the social and observational changes that have been emerging.  For one, I was surprised to hear that self-described 2SLGBTQ+ rabbinical students – the Dean used the term “Queer” as an overarching description – now represent 50% of the enrolled population not only of Reconstructionist seminaries, but collectively in all of Renewal, Reform, Conservative, and Modern Orthodox ones as well. We are in the midst of a massive cultural change in gender identity and sexual orientation.

My overall take is that the kind of disciplined, embracing, openness to new ideas and formulations of what it means to be a Jew is a tall order for assuring Jewish continuity. The Reconstructionist model has relatively few adherents (one internet reference I saw was 40,000 members of the 90+ US congregations and maybe as many as 180,000 Jews who associate themselves with the movement in one way or the other). And it is not now a growing portion of the Jewish world.  At my synagogue, which has experienced consistent growth over the past 10 – 15 years, there is little emphasis on our Reconstructionist affiliation.  We have chosen to be a broad tent, open to all Jews and Jewish-adjacents who can coexist peaceably. That has worked, substantially, because we have a national caliber rabbi who has made a multi-decade commitment to our community. Reconstructionism itself is not the prime attraction.  But given that it is in MY comfort zone, I find myself rooting for RJ and the whole movement to succeed.

How would you like to walk into a building and be greeted like that!

Jacob Weinburg and Rabbi Maurice Harris coordinated my visit and led me through an orientation to the building, programs, students, leaders and… a delicious lunch!

Put a flag on the worldwide affiliate synagogue locations within the Reconstructing Judaism movement.

Kaplan, the theological philosopher of Reconstructionism, is honored throughout the building.

Pictures and letters by and of Kaplan

On the RJ walls are also pictures of the proud graduates of the rabbinical college. The smiling fellow on the upper left corner of the shot is our current beloved rabbi, Seth Goldstein, a half a lifetime ago.

Episode #2: Reconstructing a Life after Loss

Life is filled with trauma. Inevitable trauma. Trauma of memories. Trauma of expectations dashed. Predictable traumas. Avoidable traumas. Random traumas. And all traumas involve, in one way or the other, destruction.

How do we recover from personal destruction?  How do we reconstruct? 

Upon leaving RJ, I knew I was off to visit with people who have recently experienced a great traumatic loss.

For three nights I stayed with my cousin Michael and his son David, who live in Westchester County, just north of New York City.  I’ve known Michael since I was very young, visiting him and his brother at their parents – my uncle and aunt’s – home in Berkeley. Michael recently lost his wife of more than 45 years to cancer. His grief is, of course, profound. And we were able to spend some time talking about his late wife, listening to recordings of her singing with a magnificent, powerful and angelic voice. It was deeply moving to share those memories. 

Michael and I also talked about what he can do now with his life. We talked about choices to reconstruct a new center with new purposes.  But in the immediacy of the time together, Michael had a very specific project that we decided to do for the better part of a day. It was to record a song Michael had written – words and music – for his 95-year-old mother-in-law named Sue. It was silly and weird and fun.

(I don’t know how to link the recording of the silly song to the blog, but let me know if you’d like a copy and I’ll email it to you.)

Michael enjoys music, playing it, creating it, talking about it. (We laughed as we recalled our addiction to Brahms Quintet in F Minor, playing it ad nauseum as kids on our home record players.) He thought that if he were to make friendships in the future, it would be around the notion of music making and performing. That’s reconstructing!

Coincidentally enough, living a half mile away from Michael was a high school friend of my sister Laurie named Kathy, who I had known since I was about 10. Kathy also recently lost her longtime husband, and I asked her whether she was interested in spending a day together in Manhattan. I would be meeting up with other friends and going to the Museum of Modern Art, and Kathy said she was more than game to join in.

She too was in the stage of reconstructing her life after a large traumatic loss. We had a wonderful day together, taking the train down to Grand Central Station, visiting the New York City Public Library, which featured a wonderful exhibit on The New Yorker magazine, Bryant Park with its seasonal outside skating rink in full form, St. Thomas Episcopal Church, where an organist was being tutored, and finally MoMA, where we were hosted by my old friends from Olympia – now living in NYC – Howard and Angela.

Sure, it’s a stretch, but throw in a bit of Jackson Pollack and some Picasso, and you can make a case that there was some destructing and reconstructing going on inside that museum.  Below you will find a few snapped pictures of the MoMA exhibitory, including an absolutely fantastic solo exhibit by Ruth Asawa. I can’t say that Asawa’s work fits this blog’s theme, but it was just so amazing I had to share!

Arriving at Grand Central Station

Eating at Grand Central Station

I loved the rush of being in the greatest city in the world!

Ice Skating in Bryant Park

An exhibit of the story of “The New Yorker” magazine in the hallways of the New York City Public Library.

A family not paying a great deal of attention to Moses as he is about to smash the 10 Commandments on the rocks due the misbehavior of some naughty Israelites. I think, with this painting, the New York Public Library is trying to affirm the importance of reading.

My sister’s good friend Kathy and me are outside the New York City Public Library. We’ve seen each other two or three times in the last 60 years, yet felt an immediate and warm reconnection to our youth

MoMA has all the most famous artists.  Here’s Diego Rivera deconstructing his life and wife Frida Kahlo. Followed by….

Frida Kahlo, holding her own place in the world.

Not, in my humble opinion, the best use of a baguette from Salvadore Dali.

I’m not the greatest fan of his paintings, but these Henri Matisse sculptures are extraordinary.

On the 6^th floor that was a one-woman exhibition from Ruth Asawa. I found the distinctiveness, versatility, patient application of details, and refined skills of this artist to be the most profoundly moving of my life. If you can… see this exhibit!

Given that this second episode on reconstruction focuses on deeply personal, emotional responses to trauma, I’ll mention that on another day in Westchester County, I met up briefly with my friends Martine and Stephen as they traveled down from Massachusetts to visit their grandkids on Long Island.  Martine and I had lived in a group house in Olympia as college students, and our lovely, but short, visit at a Wegmans Supermarket reminded me of all the losses experienced by our 5-person collegiate friendship group. Two spouses had died. Two sons took their own lives.  Two divorces. And we all, in one way or the other, have had to reconstruct our lives in many many ways.

Episode #3: Reconstructing for Survival

On the way back to Philadelphia and before the start of the grant workshop, I had an extra day to travel, see a few sights and be ready to drop off my rental car near the airport. I decided to go to Valley Forge National Historical Park, which I knew as a revolutionary war site but little else.

In the beginning of the winter of 1777-78, the war for independence was not going well at all for the colonies. The individual colonial militias were pretty clearly being outfought by the British.  The civilian population was all the more often siding with the Brits as loyalists than with the colonial revolutionaries.  At Valley Forge, Washington decided to make an effort to bring the various militias together as one army of the republic. It was a brutal winter.  One-third of his troops died of disease at Valley Forge. But after 6 months of military training, the army of the republic emerged united, re-imagined… reconstructed.  The war for independence would last many more years, but Valley Forge was a key to the eventual outcome. Out of loss and destruction, came resolve, purpose, and construction of an identity which would become the United States.

Episode #4: Reconstructing a Community

At the Valley Forge interpretive center, I asked a representative from the local visitor’s bureau where a good place for lunch might be and a place to stay overnight.  She directed me to some corporate locations nearby.  Upon reaching her recommended area I found it utterly sterile – modern commercial anyplaces USA.  So I went to the web and punched in “boutique hotel nearby.” That’s how I ended up in the amazingly sweet and beautiful downtown Phoenixville, mentioned at the start of this blog.  Need a picture? Sure.

Downtown Phoenixville, Pennsylvania

In addition to participating in the national Mainstreet program for downtown commercial/mixed use areas, Phoenixville also has a lovely intact residential area filled with 100+ year old homes. An economy and lifestyle that is now quite different from a century ago, but a reconstruction nevertheless of a place that now works well for its time.

Episode #5: Reconstructing a Reputation?

In the last few years, the standing of the namesake of the National Audubon Society as taken some pretty large hits.  John James Audubon was an artist, naturalist and ornithologist. His color-plate book “The Birds of America” put together in the 1830s inspired a movement not only to study and protect birds, but to recognize the vitality and importance of the natural environment more broadly. The national and local chapters of the Audubon Society have been leaders in ecological awareness and public policy environmental protection for many decades.

But as it turns out, Audubon himself held views and carried out his life in a manner that is deeply offensive to today’s values and laws.  He was a slave owner and proud white supremacist. And as his personal attributes have become a more significant part of his renown, some Audubon chapters have been renaming themselves away from his identity.

The exhibits of the John James Audubon Center in Audubon, Pennsylvania, make no reference to its namesake’s views on race. As one enters the center, you are instructed to go first to the left, where there is a wonderful series of exhibits on the distinctiveness of birds. Their capacity to fly. Laying hard-shelled eggs.  Nesting.  So many attributes where natural selection (and/or G-d!) made nearly perfect adaptations to fill countless niches. 

On the right side of the center is the story of Audubon himself. His background as a lad in France.  His inheritance and emigration to the USA. And his work to popularize the study of birds. But nowhere in the exhibition is there mention of his reputational controversy.

So of course, as is consistent with this blog’s theme – and my want – I asked the staff sitting at the interpretive center’s entry about Audubon the man and the impact on the organization of his recently focused historic deprivations. There was a young woman and young man there at the counter.  The woman responded briefly to my inquiry. The man went on and on.

“Yes,” he said, there have been impacts from the revelations. “Yes, there have been affiliates that have changed their names.” But, somewhat like the controversies in the Reconstructing Judaism movement, he made the argument that we can be both appalled by Audubon’s beliefs and practices and still honor the historic and positive impacts of his work.

This was not exactly an effort at reputational reconstruction. The young man was not defending Audubon’s positions. He did not seek Audubon’s “redemption.” But he was arguing for sitting those views in their historic context. 

He said that the interpretive center leaders were working on additional exhibitory that will touch on the controversy, even as they have decided to keep the name of the place and property the same. Fair enough in my view.

Episode #6: Reconstructing Socialist Ideals

Ok… I’m really stretching this thing.  But given my focus on the word, it is hard not to look upon the results in the mayoral elections of New York City and Seattle as a kind of reconstruction of the use of the term democratic socialism. It has gained an electoral legitimacy that it has not had for many decades in our country. As mayor-elects Zohran Mamdani and Katie Wilson meet the realities of their offices, we will see how this reconstructed socialism plays out in policies passed and implemented.

Episode #7: Reconstructing our Synagogue Roof

And then, finally, we return to the core reason for this trip: the $175K grant to reconstruct our synagogue roof.

I had come to the training/workshop for grant recipients with a page and a half of specific questions about implementation and grant administration.  I left with every one of those questions answered.  Better still, answered in a way which makes the process for our temple easier and more robust.

A few distinctive aspects to the proceeding and we’ll call this entry far too long but over.

There were 30 grant recipients, representing 29 churches and us, the only synagogue.  As I met various participants and introduced myself, I hilariously kept getting the response, “Oh… YOU’RE the Jewish recipient.” It wasn’t offensive in the least.  We were just kind of an interesting curiosity to them. Apparently there have only been six Jewish recipients of the sacred places grant in the 10 years of its history.

Funding for the sacred places program of the National Trust for Historic Places has never been higher. The previous year there were 26 recipients and the year before that 16.  At a time when federal funds for historic preservation are drying up, the constitutional separation of church and state has resulted in a kind of protection of religious structures through private initiative.  Since the feds have never really weighed in with support, they can’t take it away now.

The three of us temple folks sat at a table with a couple from a Washington DC Lutheran Church. One of them was the pastor, the other a Board member.  The latter gentleman had worked at the highest levels of the Pentagon, telling us stories about the depredations of the Trump Administration, its unethical bearings and foolish and damaging policies.  He quit rather than be a supplicant and now finds value through his church in feeding the poor and engaging in other social justice efforts. And raising funds to reconstruct its steeple!

Episodic Conclusion

Acts of reconstruction.  In the last week, I found opportunities for inspiration. Joys in accomplishments.  I have shared in the memories of losses, and felt the sadness of those losses and the unavoidably difficult challenges in moving toward renewal. 

There is an intrinsically heroic nature in the flow of construction, destruction and the effort at reconstruction. What do you need to reconstruct? What do you want to reconstruct?

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a young person named Saul at the temple after shabbat services. 

“How long have you been in Olympia,” I asked, “and where are you from?”

Saul answered that the family was from the Seattle area, Bellevue in particular. 

“Oh, I grew up in Bellevue,” I responded.  “The Lake Hills area.”

“So did my family,” Saul explained.

“What’s your last name Saul?”

“It’s Petersky.”

“Hey, my best friend in like preschool was Paul Petersky. Any relation?”

“Yeah,” Saul responded. “He’s my uncle.”

Then it got interesting. Very interesting.

It turns out that Saul’s grandmother is Ruth Petersky. Ruth, along with a business partner, Mrs. Metcalf, operated a preschool childcare center out of Ruth’s house in Lake Hills.  A childcare center that I attended in 1959 as a four-year-old boy.  And amazingly enough, Saul’s grandmother is very much alive and lucid at age 95.

“Do you think she’d be willing to talk with me,” I asked.

Saul said, “I’ll ask.”

And that is how I ended up last week on the phone with Ruth Petersky, my childcare provider from 66 years ago.

The preschool was called Tiny Tots Playtime. Ruth said that it operated on many Montessori principles but couldn’t be labeled as such since it didn’t follow all the protocols.  She said she started the day care center in 1959 and divided her coverage into two groups.  On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, they took in 4- and 5-year-olds from 9:30am to 1:30 pm.  On Tuesday and Thursday, they took in 3-year-olds over the same time period each day.   They would serve the kids lunch.

The center was located in the basement of Ruth’s home, which was about five blocks from our house. She said she had upwards of 20 kids at a time in the program.

“I don’t understand who would need such a service for only part of a day and part of a week,” I stated quizzically to Ruth.

Ruth explained that for the most part, the service was for mothers who did not have paid work outside the home.  They wanted a break in their parenting week: to get out of the house with friends, do shopping, prepare meals, clean the house or carry out other domestic chores.  Some mothers may have worked part-time. My mother started working part-time either when I was 4 or when I went to kindergarten (I believe my kindergarten was a full-day, not a half-day session.)

Then our conversation took a surprising turn.  When I asked Ruth whether she remembered anything about me and my family, I heard her voice rev up for revelations.

Apparently, when my mother came to Ruth’s home for the first time to check it out, she asked to see Ruth’s bedroom. Ruth thought that was very odd but allowed her in.  There was never an explanation given for the request and Ruth never asked Mom why.

Then there were two incidents related to my family that Ruth remembers distinctly. 

The first is that I apparently picked up a rock at day care and threw it at a window and broke the window.  Ruth thought I was a difficult kid who came from an undisciplined home.

“Your parents allowed their kids to run wild with no discipline, Danny.”  (She remembered me as Danny!)

The second incident, which reinforced her judgment of our family, happened when her husband Pete (not his real first name, but Ruth called him that affectionately) and Ruth were invited to our home for dinner. Upon arrival they were immediately greeted by Ladee – our dog – jumping up on them unceremoniously.  We were not able – or willing – to control our dog from her perspective. And it got worse.  Ladee later jumped up on our dining room table.  Ruth said that I then climbed up to bring Ladee down.  She also said that the house was kind of a shambles.

Her descriptions of our family home were inconsistent with my own childhood and young adult memories.  I know that much later, when older sisters Ann and Laurie were out of the house, I perceived my parent’s home as very neat and orderly. But perhaps when the three of us were still rug rats, it just wasn’t the case.

I do know from Dad’s writings that Mom and Dad went to counseling early in their marriage because he saw her as unorganized. That sure didn’t come across in her mature post-Arthur years.  But now, 80 years after those counseling sessions, we have outside testimony that that might have been a thing!

The conversation with Ruth Petersky was pure joy. She was witty and open and kind. How lucky I am to have an elder give new insights into my life and family even at the age of 70.

From time to time, I look back at writings I did in Keith Eisner’s writing class, or other writing knick-knacks and think, “this could be worth a quick blog entry” for a bit of fun or self-revelation. Below is such a writing from three years ago:

I have a dusty, pock-cratered, now flimsy box which my parents – probably my mother – used to put together birth announcements, congratulations, and pictures of my birth, some 67 years ago.  In the box is a blue knitted banner with the name “Danny” on it.

I went by the name Danny for about 13 years.  My parents called me Danny. My sisters called me Danny.  Other relatives and friends called me Danny.  I called me Danny.

As the teen years came upon me, Danny was jettisoned. I would be Dan from now on – I thought.  It was an adjustment for others.  Some called me Dan, others  – mostly older folks – kept on with the Danny identifier.

But Dan, somehow, never felt quite right.  I would introduce myself to others. Meeting me for the first time, people would call me Don. Or Tom.  Or virtually any mono-syllabic name that came first to their mind.  

When I hit 21 years of age, and went to The Evergreen State College for the first time, I decided that my real identity would be as Daniel. It felt right. And… was almost never mispronounced.

There was a downside, however, to this new, embraced identity.  When I would introduce myself to others as Daniel, and they returned the name “Dan” I felt disrespected. I was judgmental and dismissive of them for doing so, thinking “why are they arrogant to think that the name Dan was somehow more intimate than Daniel and that they somehow deserved or earned that right to intimacy. Instead, it marked for me the opposite.

I want to be a tolerant person.  Thinking the best of other’s intentions. But on this matter, I’m apparently inflexible. Whomever calls me Dan now, has just lost three pegs on my scale of respect… and it just drives me nuts. 

What’s in a name? More than there should be for me… but alas, when it comes to calling me what I wish to be called… that seems to be that.

The remainder of our 2025 European visit was to the beautiful and heroic rolling hills and sacred shores of Normandy. Yet, the story about HOW we sojourned in this land must start with a sunken realization in Prague, two weeks earlier. My goodness!  I forgot my international driver’s license at home.  I even forgot where I put it at home, asking Alex to try to find it and have it expressed over to Lithuania but then giving him no successful leads as to where I had left it. (That was resolved upon my return when I guessed correctly where it was stowed.)

So, the planned rental car pick-up at De Gaulle airport needed cancelation, as did the beautiful rental home in the country outside of Bayeux.  With Jean’s French-speaking aid, we secured train tickets from the airport to Normandy and back again, got last minute (crummy) accommodations, and used public transportation and our own foot power to get to the sights we sought.  Does all that sound like we’re complaining?  Well, Jean had been in Europe for close to a month and we both needed to marshal our energies to gain value from this last leg of the trip.

Our first train ride took us to the city of Caen. After checking into our Ibis by the train station, we walked up to the historical area.  I dined on fish and cheese casserole, Jean had port and sausage with tomato sauce, we imbibed our first glasses of Normandy cider (there would be more such imbibing in the next couple of days), and we stared at the street scene by the Chateau de Caen. 

The Chateau de Caen – It’s a thousand year old castle constructed in William the Conqueror’s era (before being labeled the Conqueror, his nom de guerre was William the Bastard.

I’ve always thought of the word “chateau” as either a sweet little home or part of a proper name. The Chateau This, or the Chateau That.  But in Caen, the chateau was THE Chateau.  Built around 1060 by William the Conqueror – well HE didn’t build it. his subjects/minions did that trick – it is an enormous castle structure, with supplemental buildings within the larger chateau campus grounds.  

We went to the Tourist office where we signed up for a tour that included Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. We also tried to find a hotel for the third night in Caen, as every place we looked at had been booked up.   We finally found a hotel to stay at near the Chateau, which ended up being the worst night of the trip!  Loud street music, all hours of the night and early morning.  The biggest downside of my misplaced international driver’s license.

The following day we took a city bus up to the WWII memorial museum, spent time exploring the exhibitory, and had a brief cafeteria-style lunch. Our tour began at the museum grounds and was led by a lovely and earnest young woman. We were joined only by one other family of three from Indiana.

At the WWII Museum in Caen.

On the approximately one-hour drive to the D-Day invasion sites, our guide started with her explanations of the reasons for WWII. We were able to engage in dialog on this and emerging topics in the van.  Upon arrival at the coast, we visited a German bunker site first, then on to Omaha Beach. Then we were driven to the American Cemetery.

Nazi bunker site, with extended views toward the west.

Our guide, explaining the significance of the site and the process of invasion.

Overlooking Omaha Beach.

The entire European trip for me was an exploration of heritages. Mine. Jean’s. My Jewish People’s. And here in Normandy’s beaches and cemeteries, my American heritage.

At the American Cemetery, I had a personal connection.  The gravesite of a father of a friend back home, was one of the thousands whose death was memorialized at that cemetery. My friend, Cleve, was born as his father, with the same name, was being shipped overseas for military service. They were never to meet in person. So, it was important for me to bring back to Cleve written materials that the cemetery provides to family members and friends of the fallen, and to bear witness to the sacrifices that were made in the fight against the Nazis.

Upon receipt of the written materials, a cemetery staff person drove us out in a little electric buggy to Cleve’s dad’s grave. He brought sand from the beach and rubbed it against the marble cross which extenuated the labeling.

Thousands of grave markers. If the deceased religion was Christian or unknown, they were given a cross marker.

If the deceased was Jewish, they got a Star of David. There were a handful of these at the cemetery. To our host’s knowledge, there are no Muslim Crescents nor symbols from other religions.

My friend’s grave site. The driver brought sand from Omaha Beach and spread it across the etch description in order to see the images more clearly. He also brought two flags, of France and the US, to mark and honor the fallen soldier.

The cemetery’s memorial grounds.

From there we drove back to the memorial museum. Then Jean and I took the bus back downtown. We had galettes at a lovely outdoor restaurant.  Our table neighbors were from Manchester, England, and we both realized that we were going to Bayeux to see the Tapestry Museum the next day.  But they were going later.

The next morning, we took the train to Bayeux.  The Tapestry Museum featured a work that was done, most likely, soon after William the Conqueror did his thing in 1066. It told the story, in pictures, of the Norman Invasion. We learned much about the history of the period and the history of the preservation of the extraordinary tapestry over a millennium.  As it turned out, the tapestry museum would close within two weeks for renovation, and the tapestry temporarily brought to England for display. (Really wonderful article about transfer here: https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c14ev1z6d5go . Also important discussion about the number and purposes of Tapestry penises!) So, we were fortunate to view it in Bayeux.

A Bayeux street scene on market day.

At the Tapestry Museum, there are interpretive signs. Note, it says not to take photography, but that isn’t in this location! It’s at the tapestry itself.

Bayeux church. And this isn’t even the cathedral!

We took a walk in a nature park between the train station and Bayeux central city. The Cathedral is in the background.

Throughout our trip, we have seen magnificent medieval churches in virtually every town and city… dotting the countryside with splendor. Bayeux was no exception. After a lovely lunch of fish and rice in cream sauce (Jean had spaghetti), we visited a spectacular cathedral, lazed around for a while in town, then headed back to the train station for our return trip and last night in Caen.

And now for something completely different. Random thoughts on the way to and from Giverny and our travel back home.

1. It is a thrill for me and a joy for her, as Jean converses easily with French-speaking natives.
2. Looking out the train windows, I’m seeing brown cows huddling up together, basking in the sun.
3. European transportation systems: Buses to light rail to intercity rail to airports…planned and frequent and convenient. Beautiful modern light rail in Caen.
4. An early morning walk in Giverny. Unpeopled streets on a warm early morning stroll in a tiny village – the opposite of our Prague experience.
5. The Monet Garden was as tranquil as possible on the last afternoon with couples enjoying its beauty. Pictures taken, kisses earned and welcomed.
6. The check-out girl at the Monet Garden gift shop, when asked about her job after a long day, exclaimed with a sigh how some people can be so rude.  But then after a few pleasant words between us, she said, “but not you!”
7. The taxi ride to Giverny from the train station was from a diffident taxi driver. The draw for tourists to Giverny was beauty and tranquility. For the folks needing to make a living… not so much.
8. The place we stayed in the village was run by a Shanghai-born and raised couple.  Lovely people. She ended up driving us back to the train since we could find no other means.
9. Back to the juxtaposition as a place of tranquility. When we were in Giverny, Israel was at war with Iran and Jean watched Jon Stewart talk with Christiane Amanpour and Ben Rhodes about the horrors of war and historic blunders of US and Israel political leadership. That same day, we ran into two 30-something Israeli women in town.  They are stuck, not able to return home during the war.  Making the best of it with Monet, but…
10. The next early morning, the Giverny streets are cool and empty, but the forecast is for 95 degrees in the afternoon.  By that time, we would be at the airport waiting for our flight to take us home.

I have no consummating words for this intense European trip. I am writing this blog entry nearly three weeks after returning home. Clearly, the Holocaust-related sites have thrown me deeply. Processing those horrors, along with the sweet memories of Jean’s familial connections, along with the beauty of the architecture and other extraordinary human creations, along with current political events, and along with all the daily responsibilities of my life has me feeling a bit spent.  A bit confused.

But I guess that’s not only to be expected but also understood. Afterall, along with Jean, we planned for this mélange of experiences (who said I can’t speak French!). And we certainly got that in her four-plus weeks in Europe and my two-plus weeks.