Passover has always been a meaningful and beloved holiday for me .Not only is it the Jewish Festival of Freedom, commemorating the escape of the enslaved Jews from bondage in Egypt, but it is a symbol of man’s search for freedom and an ongoing promise that freedom is possible.   Those of the Jewish faith are commanded to not only retell the Passover story of the Exodus, but to experience it as though they had personally been slaves in Egypt, escaped from bondage and experienced the miracles that led them out of slavery and into freedom.  The story fascinated me as a child, but really touched me as an adult and as a member of an interracial family.   I have always believed in the message that “until all men are free, no man is free” and that oppression is unacceptable, no matter of whom, or where it occurs.

In addition to the lessons taught and remembered, the holiday was precious to me because it was a special family holiday.  We had our seders on the first two nights of Passover, at my maternal grandparents’ apartment in Boro Park, Brooklyn.  The table and decor were not lavish or inspired by anyone like Martha Stuart. Sometimes the dishes were mismatched, depending on how many were attending.  There was a chipped enamel pitcher to hold the wine needed for the service. There was the Cup of Elijah, but it wasn’t a beautiful crystal goblet, or one of silver, as I later found at the homes of hosts whose seders I attended over the years. The side table in the living room that  normally held many old photographs, was fitted with its leaves and covered with a fancy tablecloth.  The arm chairs and couch were moved into the adjacent bedroom, but the folding doors were left open. My cousins and I would climb in and out of the chairs, lined up from the front of the bedroom to the back and would pretend we were on a train. Then we were called to the table to begin the reading of the Passover story, the saying of the prayers and singing of the songs.  My family dog, Laddie, was leashed to the leg of the old-fashioned kitchen sink, so as not to get underfoot during the serving of the meal after the first half of the service was done.

My grandmother, mother and older sister, Carol, bustled in and out of the kitchen, carrying bowls of steaming chicken soup with matzoh balls and other savory dishes.  My grandfather playfully made “matzoh (unleavened bread) cigars” for the children.  When he intoned the prayers and retold the Passover story in Hebrew, he would glance at the children to see if we were keeping up with his reading. If we were, he would smile at us, showing his pride.  Children were permitted a couple of sips of wine, only at this time of year.  The youngest child in attendance (often myself) would ask the Four Questions, beginning with our family’s customary introduction in Yiddish, but then breaking into Hebrew,singing it in the old Askenaszic melody.  Occasionally the children would be asked to read a passage in English to ensure that everyone understood what was being spoken of, but mostly everything was in Hebrew. There were (as in most families) periodic interruptions when someone told an anecdote or made a comment, but everyone was quickly brought back on track by my grandfather, who was a soft-spoken and gentle man, but to whom this was all very important and serious business.  I.loved to open the door for the Prophet Elijah and rushed back into the living room to see if the wine in the fifth cup at the table’s center, never consumed by the guests and reserved only for Elijah, had diminished.  Of course, it always seemed to and I was caught up in what felt like magic and miracles when I was very young,

Now most of those family members are gone. There are still cousins but they are spread out in location.  When my kids were young I tried to make a seder and did the best I could, cooking, preparing and conducting it, but it never felt the same to me.  I did my best but not all of them were interested, and it often made me sad because my seders were nothing like those I remembered from my youth.  Occasionally I would get an invitation to someone’s seder. Sometimes my family and I attended a community seder  put on by one group or another.  This year, though, I found myself with no place to go,  feeling sad and nostalgic.  My husband and kids had other commitments and Passover doesn’t seem to have the same meaning to them that it does to me.  They are adults and imposing it on them is not comfortable or appropriate to me.  I thought about attending a community seder on my own, but decided against it.  Instead, over the week,I  Iistened to the old Passover melodies  that I have on tapes and CD’s, and spent some time immersed in memories, some sad and some happy.

My cousins who are observant (I am not) told me of their hard work in readying for the holiday.  I remember my mother being exhausted from it all. I remember helping her unpack the special dishes and utensils and things we used only during the week of Passover.  I ate matzoh this week and some other traditional Passover snacks and foods and soon, the 8th and final day of the holiday (today) was here.

Next year I will be good to myself and will plan well in advance what to do and where to go.  I realized that I don’t do this because I am the only one now in my immediate family to whom this is a special and important holiday.  Religious folk would lay blame and say it is my fault for not having raised my kids in this way, but that’s just the way it is.

Yesterday, I read my friend Ruth Deming’s blog. Ruth is a therapist, director of New Directions Support Group of Greater Philadelphia, and an accomplished writer/poet. She wrote a poem about Passovers past in her own family.  I loved her poem and got her permission to post it here. Thanks much, Ruth!   http://ruthzdeming.blogspot.com/

I hope you like the poem too. You don’t have to be Jewish to have such family memories and to relate to it.  I would love to hear about holidays and family times that are strong in your memory and that you enjoyed.  How about some comments?

PASSOVER PHANTASY

                                 -By Ruth Z. Deming

she has stopped making seder.
mother eats alone, breaking the
matzoh in pieces. the table is bare.
the house silent but for the
often ferocious winds of
april that sound like
the children, and the white dog
who liked her sponge cake
and that black-haired husband
of hers who died, quite bald
from radiation, at fifty nine.

let’s bring them back.
back to this house, huge,
the lawn fertilized by juan
and his men, the kids in the
backyard playing duck duck goose
laughter spilling over to the
austins in the back who grew their
own tomatoes and whose cornstalks
reminded mom of the trip she took
to amish country as a girl.

with a whistle lynn brings us together
as we crowd around the long table
viewing ourselves in the mirror
daddy’s nose always looked crooked
my long black hair was parted on the wrong side
grape juice for the minors
manichewitz for the majors
aunt ethel arrives, her death will bring us
a fortune, my house, donna’s condo,
i sat in the largesse of her lap
and fondle her tiny red nailed fingers
her amber bracelet
her thin hair

little brother david reclines in his
chair, silent at age 10, he speaks with
his polaroid, the only way he can
view us while alive

my two mommies as i called them once
serve the feast after prayers and handwashing
and hiding of the afikomen
by now we are tired, the brisket and onions
only make me sleepier
i go up to my room for a little nap
and hear the sounds of my family downstairs

the unforgettable sounds amid the clatter of
dishes and putting into the dishwasher
the parade of the sparkling clean water
from the one-faucet sink
i hear them all, i hear the sounds,
i hear the laugher, even now, even now
alone in another room,
forty five years away
getting ready for bed.