Revelations and Reverence

L'Shana Tova!

The words mean "For a good year" - it is what Jews all over the world say this week as our New Year is celebrated. The sentiment is so much more than the words.

Growing up, I did not belong to any synagogue; membership wasn't something my parents obtained, the reasons unimportant to me now. We lived a block from the Spanish & Portuguese Synagogue, a shul that welcomed the Sephardim (Jews whose roots lie in the Spanish/Middle East portion of the world) and every Yom Kipur my mother, grandmother, sister and I would get all dressed up and walk down the street to hear the shofar (ram's horn) blown, the sound that would signify the break of the long day of fasting.

Even as a youngster, I could feel the joy. The music of the prayers moved me, and the sound of the shofar - which used to make me giggle - touched something I could not, at the time, understand.

When my oldest was ready for his bar-mitzvah, we chose Congregation Beth-El. It was a synagogue that had some history to us, but we chose it mainly because of the Rabbi. Rabbi Cahana was someone we had seen officiate at another bar-mitzvah and we were touched by his wisdom, his serenity, his humor and his incredible warmth. We went to enroll in the program so that our son could become bar-mitzvah.

In order to have a bar-mitzvah at any synagogue, membership is mandatory. We received tickets (security is high in this day and age) for our High Holiday seats and shortly after the wonderful experience of Josh's bar-mitzvah, we went to shul for Rosh Hashanah. It was an experience that changed me. A week later, during the Yom Kipur service, I was made aware of a portion of the service known as yitzkhor. This is a portion where only mourners can attend. Mourners, in Judaism, comprise anyone who has lost a parent, sibling, child or spouse. Mourners are the only ones who can light yahrtzeit (memorial) candles as well. Yitzkhor is a service where the dead are commemorated (our New Year is the time Jews believe we are inscribed in the Book of Life for another year).

As my family filed out with the others who had not earned that dubious honor of allowance into yitzkhor, I sat alone, utterly unaware of what was going to take place.

The rabbi and cantor (the man who sings the prayers - and our cantor is a powerful profound voice and presence) led the service, and as I read along in the English translation, I began to feel the presence of those souls we were all remembering. But more, I began to feel my mother.

I had worn her amethyst brooch that day, in essence bringing her to shul with me. But as we began to recite the prayers for the dead - there are prayers specific to every relationship - I began to choke up. I literally had to hold back sobs as I felt the awe of the moment. It was 2 short weeks since my son's bar-mitzvah, an event at which she was so conspicuously absent. And the emotions literally poured forth.

I, being utterly unaware of what Holidays were like at any synagogue, found something in the depths of my heart that day. I found, not religion but spirituality within the religion. Up until then, I was what's known in our modern-day world as a traditional Jew: marking the "main events", maybe going to synagogue (mostly not), and following the important laws of our religion. But not eschewing driving, electronics or work on Shabbat or holidays, for example. It was what many people who are not Orthodox or even Conservative do.

But that day - and the years to follow - brought home my religion. Our family had been welcomed as  members of the synagogue community and familiar faces soon became familiar friends, but I found a home in Judaism.

I did not become religious. I had a spiritual awakening to Judaism. And that was something that was driven home to me this year.

Our beloved Rabbi Cahana was stricken in the summer of 2011 and it was devastating. We did not know what would become of him, he was completely paralyzed, unable to speak, and our congregation - as well as the city that knows his wonderful reputation - held its breath as we prayed for his recovery.

The news was not good, at first. But then we received email from our synagogue with a short passage the Rabbi had dictated, using blinking to signify the letters he wanted to use to compose the words and then the passages. It was awe-inspiring.

Slowly - but not so slowly when you consider it was just 2 years ago - he began to show miraculous signs of recovery. As a patient with "locked-in syndrome" this was almost unheard of. You can read about him here. 

Rabbi Cahana had been attending shul for a while now, but this week was - for our family - a revelation.

On the first day at shul, I brought my boys to services. We sat in the balcony as we always do, and the shofar sounded for the first time that morning. Suddenly, I was struck by how awesome (in the true sense of that word) the shofar is. See, it is a ram's horn that dates back to the very beginnings of our people. It was used as a call to worship - as it is now - and even to war (as it is not, these days). But as I listened yesterday, it seemed as though I was hearing it for the first time. This ancient, sacred sound was what Moses heard, Jacob heard, Joshua who heard it and captured Jericho as the shofar was his signal to surround the wall with his troops - it was sounded then as it is sounded now, and the transition of years faded away in my eyes, from ancient times to 2013. Where as a girl I giggled at the indescribable honking of this ersatz trumpet, this week the sound evoked a feeling of awe for me. As much as I had to do for my dinner that night (I hosted the 2nd meal and was cooking and preparing for 9 people), everything melted away and I truly worshiped in the moment.

After services were over, we went downstairs to thank our Rabbi (Rabbi Allan Nadler, who stepped in when Rabbi Cahana was stricken) as it was his first High Holidays with our shul (previous years he had pre-committed to his former synagogue), and to greet our cantor (who marveled at how my kids have grown). We saw a line in front of Rabbi Cahana, as he is truly a rock star in our shul (he always has been - everyone wants to touch his hand, talk to him, be blessed by him, get a smile or a greeting from him - when you hear the words "beloved Rabbi", you might want to picture Ronnie Cahana). We stood behind those waiting to see him and when we got closer, he was engaged in conversation with a congregant. Yes, conversation - his speech is soft and slow but it is there.

His eyes wandered to us and he lit up. His face lit up. My younger son - Sam - told me he'd been watching the Rabbi the whole time and saw the transition. Rabbi turned his face to us and smiled that beautiful wide smile. He mouthed, "Wow..!" and my kids grinned happily. He said, "My favorite bar-mitzvahs!" Sam, utterly in awe, said, "Rabbi Cahana, you're doing so well since the last time I saw you!" The Rabbi said, "All because of G-d. Stay close to G-d."

I touched his shoulder and said, "You are making that very easy, Rabbi. You're an inspiration. And you know, you're famous, too!" (my reference to the above article). He grinned and said, "Small-town celebrity."

We talked with him for a few minutes, and after our exchange, we could see him growing tired. We wished him a L'Shana Tova and made our way to the car.

Walking out, Sam - who is not one to rhapsodize - said, "I'm not joking, I'm seriously going to talk about this all day. It meant SO much that he greeted us that way!" I told him to go ahead and talk about it - because it was a Moment for us. We talked about religion, and how it is sustenance for so many and for so many reasons. And Sam did, indeed, talk about this encounter all day, and at the dinner table last night.

Today, we returned to synagogue. As much as I had to do yesterday, I returned to services with the achy exhaustion of having pulled off a truly successful dinner party. But as I sat in our seats in the balcony, the aches and exhaustion melted away and once again, the moment at hand became All.

After services were over, we chatted with our synagogue's Director for a while, and when we went downstairs, the Rabbi and his family were still in the chapel, though there was only one couple engaged with him - friends of ours. From the tears on our friend's cheeks, we knew the encounter was as meaningful to her as yesterday's was to us.

When they left, we moved into his line of vision, and once again, he lit up. This time, I kissed his cheek, wished him a Shana Tova, and showed him that my husband had attended with us (as he was unable to yesterday). Rabbi Cahana looked from one face to the other, smiling as he seems to do so often - and as he always did before the stroke. Sam immediately told him how much yesterday had meant to him, telling him how "..I talked about you all day." The Rabbi smiled happily. He then turned to me and asked about how my father was. He sent regards. He engaged in conversation with us which had us hanging on his every word.

When my husband said, "Rabbi, you're looking so wonderful since the last time I saw you," he responded, "I'm looking so wonderful since the last time I saw me!" (that delightful sense of humor sent music through me)

He told us he has been taking steps. When we expressed our pleasure and surprise, he said, "It's not slow." He told us "I'm so grateful. I'm so grateful for this gift. I love my stroke. I am here. And my family needs me. My shul needs me. G-d is with me."

I was recording this in my head. I needed to remember every word. Some are harder to hear than others, but we expressed to him that we need him. I joked with him that - not yet, but when the time comes, will he officiate my sons' weddings? He loved the idea and showed confidence that he would.

When we walked out of the synagogue, my emotions flooded forth. I ended up in tears I couldn't stop. Not sadness, not really. Though yes, it is hard to see this strong, vital man the way he is. But his words, his gratitude and his outlook shattered any sadness in me; instead, I was moved to my core by his strength.

As we walked to the car, I told the kids, "look - religion isn't magic. And it is suddenly so clear to me what religion does. We know we can't say, 'G-d, I need a million dollars' or 'G-d, please bring my mother back to life' - and it may sound silly but that's something we all know is not what G-d is about. But what we saw in there, what we continue to see with our Rabbi's progress and recovery, is a man whose faith is so unshakeable that it drives him to BE the man he is, the man who wants to live and wants to heal. And how can anyone ever deny the power that invokes?"

It made me think. I know atheists. I have seen them scoffing at religion, or even the mention thereof;  I have seen the extremists as well - (we all have) - from those who give it all and expect the magic, to those who purportedly commit horrific crimes in the name of their religion.

And I have always been proud to be Jewish, proud to be a daughter of Israel, and proud to be a member of the synagogue community I found later in life. But this week, I am struck by revelation of the true power of our religion.

It makes me slightly defensive against those who believe "organized religion is a brainwashing crock" and those who believe it should be invisible. From my Provincial government, to people in my personal circle, I see the dismissal of religion as a viable entity. And so I feel defensive of my newfound revelations but not so defensive that I am losing sight of the spiritual uplifting I have embraced and renewed this week.

Emotions were already on high this week; next week, on Yom Kipur when I will once again (as I do every year) choke back tears during yitzkhor, I will recover from the wave in time for what is sure to be a watershed (and tear-shedding) Moment at our shul: Rabbi Cahana is scheduled to deliver a sermon.

I will, no doubt, be writing about that when I have my words in order.

Until then - I wish you all (those who celebrate, those who do not, those who are Jewish, those who are not):  לְשָׁנָה טוֹבָה תֵּחָתֵמוּ וְתִכָּתֵבוּ
   L'Shana Tova Techatemu ve tikatevu**

(may you be inscribed and sealed (in the Book of Life) for a good year)

If you would like to read more from Rabbi Cahana, please visit his blog

11 Years Gone, 10 Years Gifted

July 2nd, 2002, in the early hours, my mother left her body. It was a profound loss, as the years would come to show, and we got through the hours and days knowing it was what we had to do.

In her last month in hospital, I was unable to make the transition from her hospital room to my home, where 2 boys (ages 6 and almost 10) were going about their carefree lives, aware that their Bubup was not well but not ready for the finality which - to such young minds - was never as close as it truly was. I would stop at the park on Lake Road, 3 minutes from the house, and walk down the long path to sit by the lake for which it is named. I found solace in the setting sun, the happy voices of children, and most strongly, the ducks and birds which symbolized my mom's love of nature - birds most profoundly.

After the sun had set, I was able to collect my thoughts and go home to be the stable force of motherhood she had provided me, where my boys needed me to be.

On the last day of her shiva, I came home alone, changed clothing, and took my portable CD player (no iPod in those days) with classical music she had given me. I sat by the lake in the 2 p.m. sun, listening to the music, and letting emotions flow because the finality was beginning to hit.

The year brought many changes, and on the first yahrtzeit (Jewish for "anniversary of death"), I took music once again, and headed for the lake. With the advice of One Who Knows, I asked for nothing my mother could not provide, but went with her strongly on my mind, in my heart, and governing my direction.

I sat by the lake listening to music, watching the usual ducks and enjoying being in nature even surrounded by families nearby. And after 2 hours, I was ready to leave, feeling somewhat at peace but still hoping to see a sign.

Just as I stood, a movement from across the lake caught my eye and from the forest across, a magnificent heron took flight, flying across to the side upon which I sat. I was mesmerized. For those who have not experienced this bird "in person", they are without description beyond the superlative. With a grace unexpected of this huge bird, a prehistoric-sized wingspan and a presence of spirit, they must be experienced to understand the beauty. I smiled through tears; heron is one of my spirit animals. I whispered my thanks to Mommy and stood to go home.

A few steps up the path, I felt a tug. I turned and walked back toward the lake, taking a path that veers to the right, and against the forest at the end of the path stood that mighty heron. I took photos as it allowed me to, it took wing and flew across the lake again, disappearing into the forest. I knew I had been graced.

The following year, I repeated my visit on the same day, and was graced with two herons side by side. The 3rd year, 3. The 4th, 4. It seemed almost impossible but knowing that the Universe listens, and the spirits provide when the mind and heart are open, I continued to go without expectation, and be rewarded every year.

One year - the 5th - I spent the night awake, working on some school assignments, and decided as the sun rose, to make my visit in the early hours. I approached the lake to see the heron already waiting for me, on a barrel sunk into the lake to provide perch for the birds. And it has been that way since. Three years ago, my then-13-year-old son chose to accompany me, and it has become a new tradition. Each year, he becomes more adept at sighting "our" heron, and experiences the same thrilling shivers when we see it approach.

This year, the morning dawned grey but not rainy, so we woke at 6:15 and headed to the lake. We were greeted by this: (click on all pictures to see them larger)

When we turned the corner, we found this goose's family, young goslings feasting in the grass.

We watched them for a while; the one single goose keeping watch did not move from that spot but another adult was walking toward us, making motions with his (her?) head as if to let us know we were being watched.

We watched them for a while, then headed to our spot by the lake. Sam had binoculars - the ones bought in Hong Kong decades ago by the lady we were there to remember - and they are extremely powerful. I gave him the job of "scout" and he set to watching for the heron.

The lake was rippling with the wind, and our next visitor was a cormorant. They are the "Loch Ness" birds of our lake, swimming with only their heads and part of their necks above the surface, and they are fun to watch as they dive and resurface great distances away from their original point.

(blurry photo - low light and moving bird)

We watched the cormorant for a while, and were then visited by the various duck families that live on the lake. They were bobbing up and down on the rippling surface of the water, and were - as always - tremendous fun.

This very unique duck returned often

A duck couple swam nearby, coming ashore to preen. They swam together all morning - we figured they were together (despite the homewrecker noisy female that kept trying to crash their party).

We watched them dip their bills into the water and groom their feathers, keeping an ever-watchful eye (and binocular) out for the elusive heron.



A young duck peeping as it swam captured my heart, and I was able to capture his sounds (wind included) as well as another baby duck who stole my attention:

The geese had begun their morning swim, and as they approached the beach, I had to turn on the video camera. You'll hear me call them the "bad boys of the beach" because they truly walk like they own it (I picture them in little leather jackets, strutting their stuff). I was focused on one, until I noticed they had all come ashore - fun ensued!

Suddenly, across the lake, along our side of the shore to the left, I saw what seemed to be a cormorant on a rock. Earlier, Sam had seen the duck family on that rock, watching them with the binoculars until they "plopped" into the water. I pointed out the cormarant, and we watched it for a few minutes. He held the binoculars up to his eyes and said, "wait, he's got some yellow on him." And just then, the bird turned in profile and there was our heron! The low light and the shade of the trees had darkened his feathers, his position (facing us) had hidden his size. As always, my breath caught.

(blurry again - low light)

Of course, I felt her and gave thanks immediately. We watched this bird, marveling at how it must have been in that bluff for the entire morning (almost an hour since we had arrived), and talking about how its patience practically outweighed ours.

He turned to walk away from our view, and still I got photos of his unique shape.

He turned into profile once more:

And I was able to get video. (Sam marveling at how he was a "rat" for hiding out the whole time, and me urging him to fly) But he walked into the forest and was gone from our sight.

As always, we felt blessed by this visit, a sure sign that he was sent to us deliberately. We continued to watch for him, while photographing the ducks on the water. We began to talk about Mommy, and how she loved her birds. We talked about how she watched them from the beautiful windowed room she'd had built in Vermont, and how we never see birds without thinking of her. And then, too suddenly for me to even lift my camera, the heron came out of the forest, took flight, and disappeared around a bluff of trees. There is no mistaking that wingspan, the slow strength of their beating, and the sheer size of the bird they hold aloft. Sam remarked on how we had been talking about his grandmother and that's when the heron took flight for us. He had no doubt we had invoked the action by giving voice to our memories. He went around the corner, up the pathway, to see if he was able to find the heron again, but was unable to.

That's okay. She sent him nonetheless, and as every year, we knew we had been given a true gift. Not of the bird - because many people see many herons in many parts of the world. But of this bird, on this day, in this place, and in this way. Every year when we see our heron, there is a unique way in which we first sight this gift and how we experience it.

I miss her every day. I miss her smile and her gentle soul; I am so sad that she is not here to see my boys grow into the young men they have become, and to share in our joys. But she makes herself known to us in many different ways, the deepest and most spiritual in her birds that she sends.

For those who knew her, or of her, you understand what her absence feels like, and what it means. For those who did not - here is her smile. She could light up a room. And her presence still does. 11 years gone, she continues to bestow her presence upon us in ways that are awe-inspiring, but not surprising. We will always miss her but it is a comfort to know she is just a whisper away.

The Teachers We Need

**written wearing all hats: mother, educator, student**

Last year, my son had a difficult grade-9 history experience. His teacher had to leave in the first 2 weeks of school, and in the first semester, the school brought in 6 different teachers to fill the spot. The one who replaced her, at last, was someone I believe just filled the desk and could breathe.

As a result, her entire class (or the majority thereof) failed the course. Many switched into the English stream this year (grade 10) but there were those who wanted the bilingual certificate (in Quebec, French is the first official language and pretty necessary to have if one plans to stay in the province, or at least continue school here). In order to get the bilingual certificate upon completion of high school, grade-9 histoire had to be passed. So my son went to a 3-week summer course and got the failure overturned to a passing grade.

Grade 10. He entered behind the curve because grade 9 was such a dismal non-learning experience. He ended up in a class where the majority of kids came from the enriched stream (super-intensive French) and were comfortable in the course whose per-requisite they had passed the year before. His teacher understood what had happened last year but with her mandate from the Ministry of Education, she had no choice but to teach what was laid out for grade 10, meaning the grade-9 experience would shape a student's ability to succeed.

In a nutshell, my son struggled, and was given a tutor's name by his teacher. The tutor was a grade-11 student who had passed histoire, and though she meant well, she was not a teacher, per se. After a few sessions, my son was not getting what he needed, and came to talk to me.

He asked if I could contact his teacher from the summer course. He said Mr. W was someone he could relate to, and I got on the phone with the school board. They told me they would try to track down this teacher; as a rule, summer school can be taught by regular, part-time, or interim teachers, and the woman I spoke with had to go digging to see who had been in the classroom.

2 days later, Mr. W called me and we arranged tutoring. He came to the house on a Sunday afternoon, and instantly made me smile by insisting they not use the desk in the basement, but relax on the sofa and the armchair. He said he likes kids to be relaxed when they're studying. Within 10 minutes, my son was upstairs with a big grin, asking if we had a $10 bill. We gave him one, and I realized Mr. W was using the symbols from the bill to illustrate whatever they were learning in the lesson. I knew we were in the presence of a great teacher.

He is a high-school teacher at another school in the district, and told me that he will spend the first weeks of school teaching his students how to write an exam. Not answer the questions but write the answers. That is a skill we tend to leave to happenstance, post-high-school education, or good teachers. The English teacher my son had this year taught college-level writing. That, to me, is a superb skill to offer kids who will not learn it by osmosis.

Mr. W continued to tutor my son throughout the year, and we all saw a marked improvement in marks, confidence, and attitude. He came through when there was a big test, tutoring at his school, my son's school, or our house, even if a last-minute session was needed.

And as we speak, my son is writing the final exam.

The Exam (deserving of the daunting Capital Letters) is a mystery. The Ministry of Education changed the format last year, so teachers were unable to truly teach to the test. And when the exam was analyzed, there were controversies over the level of sophisticated French used, obscure questions, and what I call "pot-hole" questions (those designed to catch kids off guard and stop them in their tracks...for whatever reason).

Mr. W did the best he could, even writing his own proto-types of exams he believed could be close to what the kids would face. Yesterday he conducted a 2-hour blitz session with my son, preparing him the best he could.

Armed with all my advice and encouragement, his teacher's assessment that he knows his stuff, and his tutor's deep preparation, my kid went into the school to face this thing.

But what came next was what sent me reeling.

I got a call at 10:30, from Mr. W. He simply called to give me peace of mind. He said he'd gotten a chance to look over the exam, and told me it is a fair and balanced instrument of assessment, not too many of those "gotcha" questions, and that according to the work he'd done with my son, he felt it would not present an insurmountable challenge to my kid.

As any parent will attest, we would all take our kids' burdens ourselves. We would write the exams, do the homework, endure the physical hardships, and leave them only the fun, good, and exciting times to experience. As any parent will attest, walking our kid to the door of their first nursery experience is as shaky a moment as any in the life of a parent; will the child cry? Feel left out? Feel abandoned? Worry? Make friends? Need his mother?

So letting my son off at the door of the school this morning, not asking him if he was nervous but letting him know I have full confidence in him and giving him that last-minute mother/teacher advice ("read the whole exam first, and pace yourself, make sure to answer every question, make notes as they come to you so you can go back to them if you get stuck"), but then driving away, knowing how stressful this particular exam is to a kid whose marks have never been below the higher echelons of evaluation, that brought me back to nursery school all over again.

Getting the call from Mr. W which was solely for me to be able to breathe more easily in the 3 hours of exam time, that brought me back to teacher training, when I was doing my undergrad. We all wanted to be the teacher our kids looked up to. We all wanted the parents to accept us and we definitely wanted the higher-ups in the food chain to notice us so that we could attain seniority, security, and a good reputation.

Mr. W surpasses all those criteria. His dedication to his students is obvious, but his devotion to my son's success transcends the devotion many teachers exhibit. And this is the teacher we need. This is the guy who is in the field for the right reasons. This is the one we all remember when we have our high-school reunions and when we talk about our high-school days with either fondness or shudders of revulsion. This is the guy we all talk about with smiles and nods and attributions of our successes because this is the guy who really, truly cares.

If you are a teacher, or have one (or an impending teacher) in your life, you know how important it is to be that teacher in the lives of the students we encounter. I would love to hear your stories, either as a teacher, or about one, because I've been touched by that rarity of teachers who deserves all the accolades I hope he is getting.

**NB: we found out that Mr. W is not being re-hired for the 2013-2014 year. Yes, my jaw dropped too. Budget cuts and "low totem pole position" instead of quality and recommendation. I am as angry as I am shocked, and my indignation runs as deeply as my admiration for him. I am in the process of trying to do whatever I can to speak up on his behalf anywhere he chooses to go, and if anyone in the Montreal region is looking for an amazing tutor, this guy's the one. Contact me.**

Heroes: From the Ice...to the Heart

My Montreal Canadiens, a team I call my heart, got some tough breaks in the playoffs, eliminated in Round 1 of the Eastern Conference Quarterfinals by the Ottawa Senators. In Game 1, a player from the Ottawa team ran one of our players and our guy was sent to the hospital after a horrific injury that took him from unconscious and bleeding on the ice to a stretcher off the ice. The coach for Ottawa, a man named Paul MacLean, made some very disrespectful remarks about our team and especially showed no compassion for our injured player. The next day, one of our newly acquired forwards - a man by the name of Brandon Prust - made this statement: (the video shows the passion of our coach Therrien as well as Brandon's expanded statement) He was quoted instantly:

We don't care what that bug-eyed fat walrus has to say.

See, Paul MacLean has a - shall we say, distinctive look to him. See for yourself:

The minute that statement hit social media, we were all talking. It was Friday midday, and by game-time, many photoshopped images (including my own "separated at birth" entry) had hit the web. And Dave Stubbs, a popular sports writer for the Montreal Gazette, had posted that he planned to wear his cartoon-walrus pin to the game, as well as present Prust with a 2nd pin sporting the same cartoon walrus.

At 10:30 p.m., a fan whom I've known on Twitter, posted:

"I wonder if Dave Stubbs gave Brandon Prust the walrus pin...let's adopt a walrus for Prust and name it 'Ballsy Paulsy'!"

I replied instantly: "Or just 'Bug-Eye!'"

That started a Campaign. Between posts on her website dedicated to another Habs player and a hockey-related communal board, and both of us on Twitter and Facebook, as well as Dave generously writing about it in his column after the weekend, the Adopt-A-Walrus Campaign began.

At first, we thought we'd raise 1- or 2-dollar donations so that we could adopt this walrus (from World Wildlife Fund, a wonderful cause that raises awareness and funds for animal conservation), but suddenly, people were opening their hearts and their wallets. The adoption is symbolic but comes with a stuffed animal of the species being adopted.

In discussion, my co-organizer wondered whether we should put the money toward other adoptions for the other players involved in the kerfuffle (Lars Eller - our injured player who was stretchered off - and Raphael Diaz, the player dismissively referred to by Coach MacLean as "Player 61") but it was my husband, fresh from the Bell Center and that very game in which the injury had occurred, who suggested we donate to the Montreal Canadiens Children's Foundation which is dedicated to helping children in need. Anyone who has ever attended a Habs game at the Bell Center knows how dear to the organization this Foundation is; there are constant videos between periods that show the work done by the Foundation, the moneys raised, and - to everyone's delight - the visits to kids by Habs players themselves. (I urge you to visit their website and spend some time there - and keep it in mind when your life affords you a little extra to give to others).

The idea took wing and by the time Dave's column hit the papers, the deadline was extended in order to give everyone a chance to donate.

I am proud to say that we raised enough for the stuffed walrus which was sent to Brandon Prust as well as a total of $470 that was given to Ryan Frank of the Montreal Canadiens Children's Foundation this morning. He graciously consented to a photo of him with the check,  strategically taken in front of Brandon Prust's and Lars Eller's photos.

Ryan and I talked at length about how hockey is not just a game, at least not to those of us who are avid Habs fans. The injury to Lars Eller (now, thankfully, recovering), the Ottawa coach's subsequent tactlessness and Brandon Prust's most passionate statement, tinged with his unique sense of humor - those became a Story. In 2011, The Story was Max Pacioretty's injury and it got the city energized. This year it was the Walrus. As Ryan said, next year, there will likely be another Story. And each time there is, there is a renewal, a resurgence or just a re-affirmation of how much this team (not just the sport) unites us as a Habs Nation, a family of fans and supporters of the players, the staffers, the behind-the-scene players and now, the Children's Foundation.

I have to think heroes come in all forms. For Habs fans, we have our legends like Rocket Richard, Jean Béliveau, past stars such as Ken Dryden, Patrick Roy, Guy Lafleur. We have those heroes who used the platform of their notoriety to speak out and make this a Story. We have our current warriors - every single player, too numerous to mention - from the 2012-2013 Montreal Canadiens, a team that rose from last place to give us a season filled with victories, triumphs, and achievements, regardless of where we ended up in post-season action.

But to me, the heroes are the fans who continue, day in and day out, without fail, to show up to games in their seats or on the sofas, online or on barstools, in their Habs gear or in jammies, with their beers, sodas, or juice boxes. The fans who support this team not only on the ice (with voice-straining, eardrum-shattering cheers that must be experienced at least once in a lifetime) but who give of their hearts to these guys on non-game days, in off-season, and in events such as these that raise money directly because of Habs players, to benefit kids who may not have the opportunity to experience this luxury of hockey games at the Bell Center.

To me, YOU are the heroes.

Go HabsFans Go!!!

 (here is the money order given to The Montreal Canadiens Children's Foundation, presented to Ryan, in the photo above)

A Story of Friendship and New Beginnings

When I was in high school, I wanted - as so many of those of us who write do - to write the Great Canadian Novel. Somehow, I got it into my head that I wanted it to take place in prison. Knowing nothing about the system, I went to one of my favorite teachers. Mr. Simon had a pen-pal club - mostly Jewish pen pals but he was able to give me the name and address of a man in prison in Ohio who had reached out to him for a pen pal.

I must say, writing that first paragraph, and in planning this blog at all, I did not realize that in those days, pen pals, writing, and letters included ONLY the physical, pen-and-paper, snail-mail variety. Today things are quite different, and I realized that only in beginning my story!

Well, I wrote to the man in Ohio. He told me he was in for 4-6 years, and had been caught on a drug charge. He was able to provide me much detail for my story, and as I had originally been up front with my purpose for writing him, this was a lovely honest foray into the world of pen pals.

Or so I thought.

He stopped writing after about a year. I wrote him, but received nothing back. I continued to write. For about 8 months, I wrote regularly, asking if he was okay. My letters were not returned. Nor was any reply. And one day, coming home from school, I saw my mother driving up the street to the bus stop to meet me. She opened the car door and said, "hop in." She handed me an envelope. It was from this man. As we drove home, I read the letter. He had written that he'd received all my letters but felt he could no longer respond to me, as he had not been truthful. He wasn't in for 4-6 years, he was in for 20. And the charge was not drugs, it was homicide.

My mom and I talked; I was a teenager, after all, and she was a protective mother. She allowed me to write back. We had a very open line of communication and she would sit and listen as I'd read her my letters to him, and the ones I'd receive back. So she was okay with this (believe it or not!).

I wrote him that I was glad to hear from him. And that my worry over his well-being was alleviated. But I told him it wasn't so much the new information I had received as the lie he had told. Why not just tell me up front? Today, years later, I know why he didn't tell me up front: would a teenaged girl be allowed to write a man in prison for murder?

The correspondence continued, until he stopped, once again. This time I did not pursue the relationship.

In my senior year, Mr. Simon came to me and asked if I was still interested in writing someone in prison. I said yes, so he invited me to his house that Saturday afternoon, and a friend and I went. He handed me a letter from a man who was 26 years old and had been in for 2 years already. This man was in Georgia and from what we found out, he was the only Jewish prisoner (or only openly Jewish prisoner) in the State. He was to be there the rest of his life and was looking for friendship.

I wrote him immediately. I introduced myself, told him how I'd originally come to the practice of a pen pal in prison, and told him of my previous experience. I sent it off, and went about my life.

2 weeks later - and I will never forget the date: May 1st, 1979 - I came home having left school early, not feeling well. The house was empty and in disarray; we'd had it sprayed for whatever ants or bugs had infiltrated our old duplex. But in my room, on my pillow, was an envelope with the return address from Georgia. Feeling better already, I sat down to read.

Instantly drawn in by his eloquence and articulate writing, I read his short introductory letter. His name was Larry and he said he was interested in a mutual exchange of ideas and news. I wrote him back right away. He had included a photo with his letter, so I did the same with my return reply.

I cannot adequately express how 34 years of a friendship has unfolded. For a teenager graduating high school, pursuing new ventures, this was to become a lovely consistent friendship. There were times I didn't hear from him, but continued to write. And when he told me that he was no longer fighting as much, because fighting meant he would be put in solitary and would miss two things: football and my letters, I felt this sense of giving to another that I had not felt in my life. Sure, I had volunteered at charities over the course of my high school years, and babysitting was still an ongoing activity/job for me. But this was the ability to affect another person's whole life, and I took that very seriously.

There were weeks where I would get 3 letters a day, for 3 or 4 days of the week. I came to anticipate his letters as much as he anticipated mine. He was funny, and well spoken, poignant, and honest. How did I know he was honest? I didn't. But he would tell me the good, the bad and the ugly and that trust was there.

In the first summer of our correspondence, I mentioned that I had been dancing around a topic I felt he knew I was curious about. He wrote me back that he knew that. In the next round of exchanges, I asked him to please enlighten me. He wrote back, "What do you want to know?" I wrote back (among other things), "isn't it obvious?" His next reply, "Yes, but I don't want to tell you more than you are ready to hear." I wrote back, "Just as much detail as you would like to tell." And he replied, "No. Ask me specific questions."

So I did. I basically said, "Okay...then, what? Where? When? Why? Who? and How?"

Out of respect for his privacy, I will not relate here what his answers were. But I will say that the day I got that letter, I was on Cape Cod with my family. I read aloud (as he knew was a habit to share with my mother and grandmother), and we were all held riveted by his narrative. And that is how I knew he was honest with me. He had warned me, from time to time, "they don't call us cons for nothing." But I was always sure of one thing: he would answer my questions, and I could count on him for that exchange.

We would talk on the phone as well. First time he phoned, I was curious to know if he sounded like Jimmy Carter (my only - at the time - Georgia-accent reference).  And he informed me, in the letter arranging the call, that the guards would be listening on the other end. I think I forgot about that by the 3rd or 4th call....but one call, he said, "they're flashing the lights." (signal to get off the phone). I said, "aww...hasn't even been that long." He said, "Well, they gave us a few extra minutes this time." Dripping with sarcasm, I said, "Oh, well, remind me to thank them." He laughed and said, "Oh, he heard that."

He'd talked to my mom as well - and she would even write him. She was like that.

Larry stuck with me through the acquisition of my first dog, and the tragic death of that dog 6 years later. He learned about my 2nd dog, and was in my life when, 14 years later, I had to put Toebi down. He mourned with me the deaths of all my grandparents, the first having died a month after we began corresponding. Larry stuck with me through my dating life, and even through my getting married. As difficult as it was for me to relate these details to him, he never once held back on his being happy for me.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I received a Siddur (Jewish prayer book) in the mail - inscribed to my as-yet-unborn child (which we did not know was a boy). It is a treasure I have held onto, and just recently, have given my son.

And when Larry told me he had met a woman who was visiting him regularly, and then told me of their plans to marry, I was filled with awe - that he had found someone so special as to overlook the obvious obstacles to many women, that he had the chance for a permanent companion, and that he would experience that special love everyone deserves, I was so joyous for them both.

I confess: I lost touch with Larry some years back. It was entirely my fault. Overwhelmed with personal issues, I let the friendship fall. And as much as I regretted doing so, and kept saying to myself that I would pick it up, energy was waning in all-but-immediate matters.

Then a few years ago, I got email from a woman who wanted to know if I was the same Lissa who had corresponded with her husband, and mentioned his name. I was thrilled, because she not only reconnected me and Larry, but she and I connected via Facebook. Suddenly, I was writing long newsy letters again, though the first one had to be hard: I had to tell Larry of my mom's death. It hit him hard, and that was not a surprise. He has a heart of gold.

I have not been the best correspondent.I have let my personal life interfere with my commitment to Larry and for the times I have upset him for that, I feel deep sorrow. I know I disappointed him many a time.

But he has the most forgiving nature and has always written back when I've picked up the thread again.

Now the news: last month, April 9th, 2013 to be exact, Larry walked out of prison, a free man after 36 years. He had been trying to make parole for years, but this time, he and Ginger were able to find placement for him that will be most helpful in his acclimation to the outside world after so long. When I read her status update proclaiming that her husband is breathing free air, my eyes welled, and I said a prayer of thanks. It is a day that I know they have waited for, for the 25 years they've been together. It is a day I hoped to see, in the 34 years I've known him. And now it is here, and there are no words to describe the absolute joy this event has brought.

Ginger reported that after stopping off to get a pair of jeans that would fit him (the ones he got were way too big), his first request upon being driven to his new (temporary!) home was to stop at McDonald's and enjoy fries - with lots of ketchup. The photo she posted on Facebook had me smiling through tears. And though the Facebook event I created has expired, I will reignite it here: Celebrating Freedom with Fries was what I called it, and I asked everyone to have McDonald's fries (or any other fries - or any food they wanted!) and toast Larry and Ginger with their food. We take a lot for granted, even what we eat; and I wanted to stop for a moment, and think about how much we do. I wanted not only to salute Larry's freedom, and these two very deserving people with a fun "toast", but I wanted to feel the novelty even in just eating that which is - at its best - mundane food for those of us who have never felt the deprivation.So if anyone is moved to take a photo of themselves in a "french fry toast", I hope to be able to show Larry that there are a lot of people with good hearts in this world.

Larry is in the placement home for 9 months, without ability to receive mail or phone calls - even from his wife - until he has completed the program. I think, for Ginger and Larry, it will be the longest 9 months they have ever experienced, but I also believe it will go faster than either of them expects. And the day he walks into their home will be a momentous celebration for all who know him, or her, or both.

I have been writing letters to him. Catching up from the last batch, and keeping him updated as things happen. I intend to print them all out, and mail them when he is home. I'm pretty sure they'll have other things to do when he gets there (*nudge nudge wink wink* << For Ginger who has a beautiful wicked sense of fun and humor)

I have a friend whose artistic abilities are so versatile, she is known for her incredible artful cakes, her beautiful rubber-stamped work (she is the one who introduced me to the art 19 years ago) and her paintings that defy description. But Reesa was first known to me as the "kippa lady". Her yarmulke creations have been seen on the heads of males from infants to older men, in synagogues, schools, homes, and at every celebration from wedding to bar-mitzvah to pidyonha'ben parties. I taught kids who wore Reesa originals; her artistic ability allowed kids to wear kipas that sported Batman, the Simpsons characters, Ninja Turtles, Disney characters, and anything or everything one could imagine. Her more elegant kippa creations include beautiful designs that range from simple to elaborate, and she does this all by hand.

I decided to ask Reesa's help in creating a kippa for my friend Larry. She created the one in this photo - and it sports his Hebrew name (Simcha Chaim Ben-Yehuda) which was translated into the Hebrew alphabet by my friend Jeff.

I thank both Reesa and Jeff for their help in creating this gift for Larry; he was instrumental in getting the State of Georgia to grant dispensation to Jewish prisoners for the High Holidays, and dietary exemptions on Pesach. He is one of the most devout people I know, and I believe that his faith has kept him going all these years.

Well that, and Ginger's love.

Now that he is free, I know there will be a lot of adjustments for him; but I look forward to a lot more communication - instantaneous, now that I'm sure Ginger will teach him Facebook (he told me she wanted him to learn and that he is reluctant - I promised it will be a thing I will push for as well!).

I hope that the absences between my letters will be redeemed by our ability to pick up online. I am so looking forward to hearing how he is feeling out in the world after all these years, and I know Ginger may be absent from Facebook for a few (couple?) days after he comes home (*wicked grins*) but I also hope that her big heart and her sweet nature will see her sharing some of the joy with those of us so blessed to call her friend.

I have learned that not judging a book by its cover (or even its table of contents) has been a wise road to walk. I had learned that lesson early in life, but my friendship with Larry cemented the value of those words.

I have learned that there will always be those who slot, cubby-hole and categorize people, but that if we do so, we are losing out on some of the deepest connections we might have otherwise had. And while my initial outreach to Larry was "fact-finding", the information he was helping me to glean for my writing became secondary; the friendship grew and thrived.

I have learned not to take things at face value all the time. I have learned not to take things for granted. Larry has been crucial in helping me appreciate that which I have, and not bemoaning that which I do not. If we learn anything in life, it is to look around us and truly, sincerely give thanks for the gifts we are given, strive to achieve what we can within our means, and never - EVER - give up hope for a better future. Larry has taught me, over 34 years, that very lesson.

Welcome home, my friend - 8 months to go!  And Ginger - hang in there. I'm sure you're verrrry busy making plans for The Day...I am so excited for you both!

Bloodlust and Headlines

Last night, the Ottawa Senators faced our Montreal Canadiens for the first game of the first round of the first playoffs we have been in since 2011. We were all talking, in this city, about how friendly this rivalry has been (and would be) as compared to a Toronto or Boston match-up. We haven't played Ottawa in recent times, so this was something we all looked forward to enjoying.

I won't post about the game. That isn't the intent of this entry. By now, you're all aware of the score and how the game went, and that their goaltending was the reason it wasn't a blow-out for the Habs. And I am one of those die-hard, true-to-the-bone Habs fans who believes that one game won't decide the Series, nor does it portend our demise.

I won't post about the Hit on Lars Eller, though my stomach has been churning the same way it did when Max Pacioretty was hit by Zdeno Chara in March of 2011. But the feeling is different from when I wrote about that Hit... 

This post is about journalism. Or lack thereof.

Within hours of Lars Eller being stretchered off the ice, the blood cleaned from where he hit and the shakiness of the crowd and the players affecting the atmosphere of the Bell Center (and living rooms 'round the Habs Nation), the Ottawa Sun released its morning edition. I hesitate to post it here because of its classlessness, but I will post this link to a story by CTV Montreal, about the Sun, partly to highlight the object of my anger and disgust, and partly to authenticate it as a true front page (because I actually saw comments accusing Habs fans of making this up in order to rile the base).

I am a huge proponent of journalistic integrity. I wonder where it has gone, and why it is so rare to find. The Sun's decision to publish what they did showed me that it is even more rare than I had thought.

I get that there are bloodthirsty crowds at fights (which I despise, for my own personal reasons) and I get that there are those who go to hockey games in hopes of seeing fights and/or injuries (to opposing players, of course!). I have never understood that, and I know that hockey is the only sport in which fighting does not advance the game whatsoever. I've seen the crowds jump to their feet around me as a fight breaks out, or a huge hit is executed, and I can't get that excited; in fact, I have actually bemoaned our own players for not sticking with the game plan.

But for a newspaper to publish a photo of a bloodied man whose career could very much hang in the balance, and use the bloodlust for a cheap-shot headline, that got my blood boiling. And I felt compelled to write the editor of the Sun, both in email and on their web-form for that purpose.

As I don't feel the Sun will print it, and even if they do (in hopes they have a fair view of what journalism is), I will share what I sent to the editor in my direct email, here in my own pages.

I sent this to your "Letters to the Editor" online but in order to be sure it got to you, I'm sending it to you here as well. Thank you for your attention to this matter. I'm sure, as an editor, you would like your publication to be the most respected and most tasteful. Sadly, as you'll see by my letter, your front page delivers neither quality. Below is what I wrote via the webpage.

I am a Montrealer, and a lifelong Montreal Canadiens fan. We, here in Montreal, were very pleased to be facing the Ottawa Senators in Round 1 of the Playoffs, as this is the first time in decades that our teams are facing one another. All along, we've been friendly rivals, without contentiousness and without the kind of vitriol reserved for our regular rivals such as Toronto and Boston (a shared animosity, I believe). And we were looking forward to our cities competing without it degrading to ugliness.

This is not about Game 1, the score, or even the hit on Lars Eller by Eric Gryba. Rather, I am writing to express my abject disgust over the front page headline juxtaposed with the photo of Lars Eller. The picture is of Eller directly after a hit (one that sent him to hospital with a concussion, facial and dental fractures), bleeding profusely; the headline reads: "First Blood Sens".

I am utterly dismayed at the lack of class and heart this shows on the part of your editors - from the sports editors to the editor-in-chief for allowing it to be published. If this were an Ottawa player, and a Montreal paper had the gutlessness to do the same, you, too, would be up in arms.

Shame on you for your exploitation of an injured player to laud your win. Your journalistic integrity is deeply lacking in compassion and class.

Note: (for the record: the story in the Sun begins:

"First, the Senators drew blood Thursday night.

Then, they smelled it.")

I believe if the editor had any integrity whatsoever, he would publish some sort of statement of regret. I doubt that would happen. As I said, I just wish they would print my letter.

 When I am feeling emotions of any kind - I write. It is my catharsis, my emotional cleansing, it is my therapy and happens to be a forte, and if I can share my words with those who can use them, need them, or should hear them, all the better.

Expressing my outrage, sharing it with my fellow Habs fans - and to my great and pleasant surprise, many MANY Sens fans - and perhaps getting an editor to think twice about what he allowed will go a long way toward the healing process needed after an unwelcome revisit of the nausea incurred when one sees one's team experience a stretcher-required injury mid-game.

Prayers to Lars for a speedy recovery and a FULL return to the ice.

And Go Habs GO!!!!!

Sports are Good For The Health?

(Photo by Francois Lacasse/NHLI via Getty Images)

Aren't sports supposed to be healthy? Tonight, it doesn't feel that way.

My Habs just won a HUGE game against the Boston Goons Bruins. From the start of this game, migraine aside, I was not excited. I was nervous, I was tense, I was not feeling an enthusiasm but rather a dread. I don't like that - hockey has become more than a passion for me, and I love those opening face-offs, I love the blank scoreboard filled with promise and I love the newly Zamboni'd ice that marks a fresh start for every game. But somehow, when this match-up occurs, I don't feel that love. I just want it to be over. With the Habs chalking up another "W".

The Bruins are known for hitting hard, dirty, and unchecked by refs. They're known for forgetting about the scoreboard and running up minutes on the Penalty Board. (okay, there's no penalty board but if there were, it would be theirs to own).*

(*in fact, there was a total of only 8 penalty minutes for both teams all game. Both teams recognized the need to play disciplined hockey) 

We've had our run-ins with the Bruins - and my first introduction to the venomous rivalry was the March 8th, 2011 hit on Max Pacioretty. Not reliving that here, but it's historic as regards my own foray into this crazy game. But our playoff battles with Boston have been flush with emotional moments and more deeply-carved hatred (I use that word because it is used so often in reference to these two teams).

I blogged about the rivalry for a blogging contest and won 2 seats in the reds to see this match-up. My words hold true in my blog - I can't use "hatred" in its true sense because that word is saved for true situations. But it's close. The Bruins incite those emotions because they are just so dangerous in their need to fight and to injure.

So I read all the lead-up statuses and tweets to this game: "Looking forward to an exciting game!" and "Can't wait to renew the rivalry!" and I couldn't share that anticipation. To me, the best experience in a Bruins-Habs match-up is the end of the game when the Habs have won. Does that make me a bad hockey fan? No, because I'm not like that with any other match-up (Toronto comes close but not like this).

Found out I wasn't alone either - more than one of my Twitter friends expressed the same dread, the same uncomfortable tension and the same need for an end-of-game buzzer with the Habs victorious.

This was a game filled with tension. The Habs got 2 goals in the first 2 periods, only to lose the big lead with a Bruins goal in the 2nd. That's when my tension went on high alert. A one-goal lead is not a lead to protect, nor is it ever a lead to be happy with, until that end buzzer. And with the Bruins getting new life on their goal, we were in trouble.

The guys played absolutely amazing hockey. Carey Price is a revelation with every game and was so incredibly awesome tonight as to be supernatural (Carey haters will hate but they are as inconsequential to me as Bruins fans). But with a one-goal lead for most of the game (and as it turns out, till the end of the game), it was a ridiculously physical game - for me!

Seriously, are heart palpitations, sweaty palms, knotted stomach, increased headache, and weak knees a normal state for a person my age? Only when the Habs play Boston.

And with half the period to go in the 3rd, it was too early for me to take my regular standing spot in front of the television, but there I was, standing for a couple of minutes as my nerves took over and I couldn't sit at the keyboard without nervous energy taking over.

When Lars Eller took a holding penalty at minute 19:04 and the Bruins pulled their goalie for a 6-on-4 advantage, I went into full knee tremors. Is that normal? Uhhhh...see 2 paragraphs above.

But the Habs held on for the win.

And when the time ran out on the most tense minute ever, I screamed and added sore throat to my list of hockey-induced ailments.

Well worth it, Habs. Well worth it.