Who will be the Zaidys of our children?

There is a visceral correlation between the seasons of the year and the seasons of the Jewish calendar.

Lighting Chanukah candles is in the frost and ice, stamping the snow off your boots as you blow into the warm home of wherever your Chanukah party is. You wipe the fog off your glasses, blow your nose, shrug off your coat and help yourself to the doughnuts and latkes. The small, hot candles burn brightly at the darkest time of year, reminding us to shine our own lights when everything seems black.

I write these words to you from Kalahari where I am spending two days and a night with my daughters. The reason I am here is that one of them is on winter vacation (they don’t get a break in December but rather they do it now instead), and the other one used the opportunity to put herself on vacation. A perk of working for your parents, I suppose.

It’s the end of an era. 

Last week I got home from Monsey, NY where I was celebrating the shiva of my dear grandmother, Mrs. Neche Heimowitz, of blessed memory. I say “celebrating” mindfully — it was not a sad shiva but rather an inspirational one, one where we all got to celebrate the woman who was my grandmother, or “Bobby Heimowitz,” as she was lovingly known. (We did used to call her “Bobby Bronx” to distinguish from our other grandmother, “Bobby Queens,” but then the one set of grandparents moved from the Bronx to Monsey and the other one moved from Queens to Brooklyn, so we had to revert to last names which were hopefully less temporary.)