4 | JUNE 24 • 2021 

M

y sister Olivia Ross 
and I, as well as 
our families, look 
forward to spring each year 
and the arrival of my mom’s 
peonies.
 My mother, Rose Hack, 
loved to garden and had 
the most gorgeous peonies. 
After she died in 1984, we 
sisters transplanted the peony 
bushes to our gardens. Over 
the years, I have has taken 
peony cuttings to each of 
my children living in three 
different time zones: Jon 
in Redwood City, Calif., 
Michelle in Chicago and 
Alicia in Boulder, Colo. 
 We wait all year to see 

whose will bloom first 
and remember grandma. 
We watch them grow tall, 
get buds, pray for the 
ants to open them, all the 
while texting the peonies’ 
progress with photos and 
remembrances of Grandma 
Rosie. 
 Jon’s puppy dug his up a 
few years ago, so he got new 
cuttings this year; Michelle’s 
always blooms first; and 
Alicia’s, transplanted to her 
new house on a sunny 2020 
winter’s day, are last. 
 Olivia’s peonies moved 
from one house to another, 
from sun to shade, and 

this year have been 
re-transplanted to get more 
sun. Her sons Jeremy and 
Matt are waiting for their 
cuttings.
 The peonies connect the 

generations and serve to keep 
a special grandmother alive 
in our thoughts and hearts. 

Carole Maltzman lives in West 
Bloomfield.

for openers

L’fl
 eur 
V’dor

essay
One Generation Departs, 
Another Steps Up 

COURTESY OF CAROLE MALTZMAN

PURELY COMMENTARY

CAROLE MALTZMAN
Rose 
Hack

Olivia Ross 
and Carole 
Maltzman

Michelle’s 
peonies in 
Chicago

Jon’s peony 
cutting from 
California

Alicia’s peonies 
in Boulder

S

ometimes when a 
torch is passed, it’s an 
actual flame handed 
off from runner to runner in 
a torch-lighting ceremony. 
It’s thrilling to see the athlete 
sprint with 
confidence and 
purpose, torch 
thrust high. The 
next runner 
awaits, ready to 
take the flame 
forward. A quick 
handoff and the 

torch advances toward the 
next outstretched hand.
We see the exhilaration 
on each runner’s face; 
we can only imagine the 
responsibility the runner feels 
to keep the flame moving 
ahead. Don’t drop the torch. 
Don’t fall. Don’t fail.
As the first of our 
grandchildren headed to 
Jewish overnight camp this 
week, a torch has passed to 
me. A torch whose warmth 
comes not from fire but 

from memory. The torch 
was handed off to me by 
my parents and in-laws and 
the parents of so many dear 
friends, devoted grandparents 
who never missed the Jewish 
summer camp sendoff.
They stood in the hot, 
crowded, chaotic synagogue 
parking lot, bestowing their 
kids and grandkids with 
hugs, kisses and words of 
encouragement. No matter 
how long it took to load the 
buses, they stayed. When the 

air brakes released with a huff 
and the buses at last lurched 
forward, they waved until the 
buses were out of sight.
Sure, some of that 
was simple devotion, 
the boundless love that 
connects grandparents and 
grandchildren. But these 
grandparents also understood 
the essential role Jewish 
overnight camp plays in 
building Jewish identity. Not 
only is camp joyful and fun, 
camp makes being Jewish 

Sally Abrams
JTA

continued on page 6

here for it all.

