Month: February 2017

Introduction

I had this idea for a series of blogs while talking with my husband early this morning. We’ve lived here for 16 years and, although we were happy in this environment we had many financial struggles. This is not the environment to begin a career or continue one either.

But now we’ve moved on and the elimination of the financial stress brought an expansive feeling of happiness on an everyday basis. It’s time to enjoy both the people and the natural world that surrounds us.

There are dog and cat stories, bear and snake stories, water stories, bird stories. But now I’m finding that I’m putting the natural world before the people stories which probably doesn’t matter, I guess. Just the same, that’s where I’ll begin.

The saga of what brought us here to Appalachian country has been told and written about more than once. Here are the facts without the poetry. My son and husband, every summer, came here for a week in July since Michael was five. In 1999 I got tired of staying home–I didn’t think I liked camping–so that summer I went with them. Emerging from Lehigh Tunnel I saw what is called “the endless mountains” and I was sold by the time we reached our camp site. All that we had to do was find a job–Peter’s self-employed–find a place to live, get a mortgage and sell our house in Media, PA. All that being done within the space of one year we came here for good.

2) Part 2

Michael’s homecomings were quite emotional, as can be imagined. He always brought gifts and there were big hugs and tears as well. That night, the night we arrived home from the New York City airport, we’ll never forget. We didn’t get to bed until dawn and Michael–having a kind of weak larynx–could not talk.

The first time we heard that “It Fell On My Head” story we laughed so hard that it hurt. We cried tears of laughter as Michael acted the whole thing out; especially memorable was the way in which Michael portrayed this lovely rabbi, wearing a slightly crafty smile, holding out the book to Michael.

Together they sat and looked. Michael found all the Reidbords’ records from far back in time. Actually it was noted in this book that the Reidbord brothers built the synagogue. But there’s a shadow over this cheerful story; a whole section of my mother’s family were sent to concentration camps.

However–there’s another part of this story that I find incredibly endearing. Even the rabbi who was revered and who set the example for good Jews to follow, decided to “break the Shabbos rules” and get the book for Michael. It shows how a good Jew–and a good person as well–can determine what’s more important, the rule or the heart of a nice Jewish boy who wants to bring news to his mother.

So I wear a button that says: “Proud Descendant of Immigrants.”

2) Part 1

One summer, when Michael was still in either college or grad school — I forget which–he took on a “mission” for the United Nations in central Europe. I can’t remember what that “mission” was but I do remember that it wasn’t one that scared us very much. While he was away he decided to take some courses at the University of Prague; while there he decided to try to track down the Reidbord family’s roots. My mother had said that the Reidbords came from a small town called Merich, in Poland.

Louis Reidbord, the grandfather I never knew because he died so young, was an immigrant, as were his four brothers. All the young men were supremely talented in building and making things. When they made their way to Pittsburgh they formed a business of their own–Reidbord Brothers–which is still in existence.

Being the young girl that I was–endlessly curious–I asked my beloved grandmother many questions about her husband. Well, she told me, he had golden hands. He could make or fix anything.

Back to Michael. On a Saturday Michael found Merich and he told us that the biggest building in this very small town is the Jewish synagogue. He took pictures of it. He found his way into the synagogue but there appeared to be nobody there. He looked around and eventually found the rabbi, sitting at his desk, quietly reading some commentaries of the Talmud. This is an honorable way to pass Shabbos, other than visit relatives or have a snooze. Michael was able to describe this scene so well that I keep thinking I was actually there. Books everywhere, on shelves, tables, even on the floor…

The rabbi didn’t speak English but was fluent in French. What a relief that Michael is fluent in French also–he has taught medical courses in that language–so they easily communicated. The rabbi was sweet and full of praise for this good Jewish son who was searching for his mother’s relatives. He told Michael that the synagogue’s record book was on a very high shelf of his office; the act of standing on a ladder to retrieve a book would be considered “work.” He felt awful, though and Michael did too! As he was exiting, Michael heard a clunking noise. He turned around to find the rabbi smiling happily and clutching the record book in his arms.

He shrugged. “It fell on my head,” he said.

1)
Everything I write about Trump’s election has been said, written, and recorded. What would anything I write here make any difference to anything?
I will say that I fell asleep on election night, confident that when I woke up, Hillary Clinton would be our President. Instead, upon awakening my stomach fell to the ground and my heart exploded into pieces–heartbreak, that’s what it was.

Just like millions of Americans, the three of us–me, Peter, and Michael–wanted to DO SOMETHING…anything that would make the pain go away. Listening to various podcasts I heard a psychologist say in an interview that we should all go out into our communities and volunteer some time. For most of us, that’s all we can do. So my son Michael, already working at Temple University, put some time into working with the Congressional Black Caucus. He speeds up and down the eastern seaboard on Amtrak, working on his laptop, getting ready for the next meeting after the one he’s headed for. My husband has many talents; he’s great at making things. So he made up buttons that have “Proud Child of Immigrants;” “Proud Grandchild of Immigrants;” and “Proud Descendant of Immigrants” on them. That’s the one I wear.
Also Peter has approached Bloomsburg University about putting together a symposium; it would be a source of information where hopeful entrepreneurs could learn some invaluable skills and ultimately succeed. He has a lifetime of experience to share.

The Goldings and the Reidbords (my mother’s family)–both came here in one of the big waves of immigration from Europe.

For myself, I’ve volunteered to work in our Women’s Center. I fear for the battered women and teenage girls needing birth control–I want them to keep the protection that the Women’s Center provides.

Finally, take a look at Jonas Salk, who was able to produce the first polio vaccine. He was considered a hero for those times, almost God-like. Many millions of parents could breathe a sigh of relief. (Salk wanted the vaccine to be free to everybody.) And where did he come from? His parents were Jewish immigrants who came here and worked unbelievable hard to give their brilliant son an education. What geniuses would we bar from our country if Trump had his way?