The More The Merrier For Sukkah-Building Ritual
By SUSAN STETTNER
Every year summer ends with
cooler days and nights. The leaves
begin to show their beautiful
autumn hues, and my thoughts turn
to the new year about to begin. It's
a time for reflection and new
opportunities, but also a time for
continuity and ritual.
I recall when as a younger
couple, living in another city, my
husband and I joined a chavurah (a
group of families that celebrated
together) from our synagogue.
Someone suggested building and
decorating a sukkah for Sukkot. We
volunteered our backyard, in spite of
our reluctance. It was all very new
for us. We began a tradition that still
continues, a fun Jewish family ritual.
With the first hammering of the
nails, the building of that biblical but
"bound" us together. We became a
group! It was easy. It was fun.
After it was built, we all stepped
back to take in the scene. We
couldn't believe we actually did it. It
may not have been perfect, but it
was ours. What excitement! When
the sun went down we lit candles
and said the bracha. We made
kiddush with the sweetness of wine.
Our many thoughts of the day
lingered. Here was our sukkah.
Three walls and a roof with the sky
peeking through. It was ours as a
family group to experience!
The next year came, and
summer was ending. We had
moved and were no longer near our
chavurah. The children asked if we
were going to have a sukkah. My
husband and I wondered about it,
too, for a couple of days. Could we
do it alone? We made the decision
to do it, but this time we would
invite our friends and their children
to share in the preparation of the
sukkah.
Everyone in our family made
calls. The Sunday before Sukkot
was filled with hammering and
decorating, munching, and laughter.
Families that had never participated
in building a sukkah became
creators.
Every year, our sukkah
decorating party became a Stettner
family ritual. Everyone expected to
receive an invitation. People brought
decorations or things to add.
But with every year that passes,
we all get a little older and
sometimes a bit tattered along the
way. All of us face new demands
and so it was with my family, too.
New work responsibilities and other
conflicts pulled on us as a family.
After the last High Holidays, none of
us felt we had the energy (or maybe
the interest) to reach out to our
friends and families to get things
going and prepare for our annual
celebration.
So we didn't.
My husband and kids pulled
out the sukkah walls quietly. Just
the four of us put up the sukkah
and decorated it. There was no
bustle and lively energy to it. It went
slowly, and was it ever depressing!
We looked at each other when it
was finally done and knew that this
was not how it was supposed to be
at all. We talked about how lonely it
felt. It just wasn't the same without
all our friends and family. Oh, we
did enjoy the holiday, eating in our
sukkah and enjoying autumn, but
we all talked about how we needed
the others to make it all complete.
A New Year approaches . . . a
new opportunity .. .
Susan Stettner is director of Jewish
Experiences for Families.
Rosh Hashanah: New Beginnings, Reflections On The Past
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are filled with hope and prayer for
new beginnings as well as reflections on the past.
Traditionally, we visit the cemetery during this season. It is a way to
not lose sight of what came before us. It is a reminder that each of us is
an ambassador for the generations that have shaped our lives.
Yizkor, the service for remembering our loved ones, said on Yom
Kippur, is another opportunity for us to recall relatives and friends that
influenced us in so many ways.
With this in mind, we offer the following poem by Danny Siegel, from
his recently published volume A Hearing Heart:
Yizkor 1991,
Looking At My Grandparents' Photographs
Which I Have Brought To Synagogue
By DANNY SIEGEL
So much we owe you:
How we get up in the morning, at six or at nine, or at all,
with the washing of hands and a blessing before food, or without,
even how we hold the fork, right side up, or, European style, over,
when we cut the meat for Shabbas, which we learned at your table.
Because we loved the way you spoiled us,
we watched you closer than a Chassid the Rebbi,
you the parents of my parents.
And what we eat: Kosher, watching our watches after meat,
till your time (ours) is right for ice cream.
With you we are always possibly children.
We owe you:
what we sing to ourselves
we remember from the long drives home with Daddy,
what Mommy taught us in the car,
what you learned from your own (mine),
what ours learn from us we ask,
"Is that that funny language from the pictures, Yiddish?"
We owe you our songs and our speech.
By us, "second nature" is first,
and it is yours.
When we read the news, it is yours,
yours the phrase after turning the pages of The Times,
(yours the Forverts), asking,
Is it good for the Jews?" or "When will it ever stop?" meaning:
the trying-and-trying-again to rid themselves of us, the Jews,
all variations of the men on horseback with the clubs and guns
who rose through your town at breakneck speed (your necks),
who drove you here to me, bruised but unbowed.
We owe you our Seders, what we don't skip, will never skip,
where we hide the Matzah, and what we give the children as a reward,
how, opening the door, we look for the horses
and the long knives flashing of the Old and New Oppressors
more, even, than Elijah.
Because of you I do not walk barefoot in the house;
I do not sleep on the ground . . . because of you.
It is you, you, when I hold the Challah high, and in both hands,
and tear from the center;
you, immigrant Zeyde when my father says, "Poppa,'
you, Bobbe, when I hear "Momma,"
you, the only ones allowed such holy names;
you, when — all those years I tried to run away —
I still called Friday afternoons to say, "Good Shabbas, peace."
You.
My gratitude, my thanks
when my legs ache more than my stomach
at the end of the fast,
because the last hours of The Day the gates are closing
and it is awesome beyond belief,
and you told me I must stand, and in awe I must stand.
You say, even now, though you are at rest these thirty years,
"Sha! The Shofar. Another few minutes. Sha, Mein Kind, sha."
White as The Marble Throne, as the Radiance itself,
my tablecloth tonight,
bright as your face as you lifted the cup for Kiddush
(which I lift now),
your image, your presence.
We owe, and we repay, with joy.
With these words, I offer you my heart,
which, too, is Yours.
THE DETROIT JEWISH NEWS
L-3