If I Could Have Just One Day

If I Could Just Have One Day…

 A Memoir

By

Leslie Golding Mastroianni

No matter how fruitless it is to think like this—I believe—I find myself wishing occasionally that I could have just one day, 24 hours, to spend with my grandparents. They are no longer here on this earth.

If I could be at my grandparents’ house on a Friday before dusk I could watch my grandmother light the Sabbath candles. In Yiddish this is called “bentsch licht.”  Then I would sit down at their dining room table and I would have some of my grandmother’s wonderful chicken soup, oh so luscious with tiny globes of fat floating in it. But I left two important things out! Before the soup my grandfather would say the Hebrew blessing over the challeh, the braided loaf of bread with a glaze of egg whites, and the blessing over the wine. My grandfather loved to sing out the Hebrew prayer over the wine: Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu Mellech Ho’alom boree pree agafen, or Blessed Art Thou, Oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, who gives us the fruit of the vine.

Then the meal would begin.

Instead of sighing with boredom and watching the clock until it was time to go and daydreaming about matters other than bread, wine, and candles (as I did as an adolescent) I would converse warmly and politely with my grandfather, asking him how his week had been, and what both my grandparents had been doing all week. If one of them said something that sounded interfering or bossy, instead of moaning, arguing, or stomping off to the bathroom and slamming the door, (as an angry teenager I actually did this) I’d smile and remember that they are after all my grandparents. My grandfather would play his violin.Then we would all go to sleep.

In the morning, Saturday morning, I would wish my grandparents “Shabbat Shalom.” I would walk—my grandfather did not drive on Shabbos—to Paole Zedeck, an Orthodox synagogue where my own family did not belong. We would enter the sanctuary—men on the left, women on the right. Instead of chafing against the separation of the sexes I would find a seat in the womens’ side; instead of trying to follow along in the prayer book (it was all in Hebrew, which of course would make me mad) I would listen to the rabbi lead the service, and the cantor would sing the Hebrew prayers. I would look at the beautiful stained glass windows and breathe peacefully. My grandfather would be on the mens’ side, his prayer shawl—tallis in Hebrew—wrapped around him, sometimes placed over his head. The men rocked back and forth as they prayed. Then my favorite part, the benediction, would come; the rabbi would wish the countenance of God to shine down on us and grant us peace. As I was even then—disrespectful—I did love that.

When it was over I would walk with my grandfather back up the hill to his house where a cold lunch was ready—no cooking on Shabbos—and then my grandparents and I would talk pleasantly about all kinds of things. Then, since nobody works on Shabbos and it was a day of rest, my grandparents would go to their bedroom and take a nap. I would snooze a little on the spare bed. When we got up it would be time to say good bye to the Sabbath day and I would leave.

I wouldn’t ask to use their phone to call my friends; I wouldn’t complain about how bored I was; if my grandparents wanted to tell me stories about their childhoods and where our family came from I would listen attentively.  Even if one of them told me that I was plump and should go on a diet I wouldn’t fly into a rage; I would thank them for being so concerned about me.

If I could only have one day…