There’s a silly little cartoon I’ve seen a few times. An older man, one arm around his son, the other in a grand sweep before him, says, “Someday, son, this will all be yours!”
And what is “this all” but a two-car garage, boxes piled to the ceiling, a broken-down lawn mower, an old sewing mannequin (why is there always a mannequin?) and junk that would make even the Antiques Roadshow eye the exit.
This is not some veiled accusation of my own parents; they lived through it themselves: the tedious and painful process of purging the once-loved belongings of those we love. My grandparents, when they downsized, left their share of mid-century Tupperware, grocery store flower vases and back-dated magazines. All these things had to be lovingly dealt with. But that’s all it was: things to be dealt with – lovingly, only because we love those who loved the things.
Ever since then, my parents have swept through their own home seasonally, so as not to leave my sister and me with the same laborious and, frankly, depressing task.
This was the third year that I hosted my family’s Passover Seder, and I asked each person to bring a bag with whatever they felt they would need to bring with them out of Egypt (shout-out to the mother of Molly Hess, director of Jewish Experiences at The J, for that great idea!) What are the timeless items and souvenirs that you would take with you if you and your families had to leave today – right now?
Well, I think, of what am I the keeper? Are there shtetl-old candle sticks? A Haggadah with the names of my ancestors? My grandfather’s tallis? No, no and no – whether through the patterns of human migration, or the fury and fire of history, or even by simple misfortune, mine is not a family with a great number of heirlooms.
And those I do have – do they pass muster?
If I were to flee now, would I really take the glass platter monogrammed with my grandmother’s initials? I love it. Since inheriting it, though, I’ve used it thrice. And, no, not for a moment would I consider taking it into the Exodus. It weighs, like, ten pounds without a single rugelach upon it.
What I would bring, though, are my Shabbat candlesticks, the ones I picked out before McKay and I got married. I don’t think I would pick them again today, but they have brought light to the darkness for 15 years. I would bring the kiddush cup that I bought on Etsy. I was heartbroken when I broke the one I received from the Israeli counselors during my last summer as The J’s camp director, but at least this one matches the candlesticks. I would bring my Artscroll Siddur, which makes me look like a more serious Jew than I am. But the Omer has just started, and I love that the spine of this prayer book is cracked to open to the right page every time.
The rest of it, I think, I carry in my heart. I do not require my mother’s wedding china to remind me of the Passover Seder when my Great-Grandma Ray answered “mah nishtanah halilah hazeh” with “pass the salt.” I do not need the record player on which my Grandma Dot played “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” at Rosh HaShanah dinner.
I am not from a family with many physical heirlooms. My mother would insist, here, that I mention that almost nothing survived the fire that consumed my grandparents’ home before I was born. I am sure that is a source of sadness my family lives with in ways I do not see, but I feel no poorer for the lack of lovely old things in my life. The traditions embodied in the plates, the stories in the wimples, the songs in the candlesticks, all live in the traditions I keep with my children. Their eyes, blue from their Irish grandmother, shine with the Shabbos candles, regardless of the silver that holds them.
I will tell my children, “someday, my darlings, this warmth and light each Friday night – this will all be yours.”
