Last week, my husband and I drove to Narrowsburg, New York to bring our youngest daughter Nomi to Camp Sternberg. It was a beautiful drive through the Poconos and she was so excited to go off for her very first adventure at overnight camp.
My baby is going to camp.
In the past three months, my husband and I have married off two nephews and a niece. Mazel tov!
“Castle Hill” were the magical words of my childhood. For years, my family and I rented a small bungalow in what we called a “bungalow colony” in the Catskill Mountains in New York State—one colony of many populated by Jews living in “the city” (Brooklyn and Queens) and seeking to escape to, literally, greener pastures.
Recently I’ve been following an Instagram account called, “I Was Supposed to Have a Baby: Jewish Fertility Support.” Which is somewhat odd because infertility, thank God, is not one of my challenges. But many of the posts and stories are really resonating with me despite the fact that my life challenges are completely different.
Choni Hame’agel, a Talmudic figure, once met an old man planting a carob tree.
“How long will it take to grow?” he asked.
“Seventy years,” the man answered.
“Do you know that you will live another 70 years?” Choni inquired.
“Just as my ancestors planted for me,” replied the man, “so too I plant for my children.”
I used to be that person who never cried. Maybe because life, for the first few decades, was pretty simple.